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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28754919">The Trouble in Times Square Affair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynwa/pseuds/alynwa'>alynwa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2020 Christmas Challenge, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:14:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,274</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28754919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynwa/pseuds/alynwa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>This story was written for the LiveJournal Section VII 2020 Christmas Round Robin.  The participating writers are girlinthglen, alynwa, leethet, pfrye23, selyndae, mrua7 and ssclass56.</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Trouble in Times Square Affair</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Twas the Night Before Trouble by GirlintheGlen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story was written for the LiveJournal Section VII 2020 Christmas Round Robin.  The participating writers are girlinthglen, alynwa, leethet, pfrye23, selyndae, mrua7 and ssclass56.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Illya Kuryakin was in a tight spot.  He had his partner on one side, a gun to his head and a madman threatening to kill him.</p><p>On the other side, a young woman whose life was ebbing away as she bled from a stab wound inflicted by the same lunatic now threatening Napoleon.</p><p>“Major Durham, please…’ Illya hated the idea of pleading with this man, but he had to save them, even at the cost of his pride.  Napoleon moved his head ever so slightly, he knew what was going through Illya's mind and the risk it would be for everyone involved.</p><p>“You don’t need to kill anyone.  Miss Claiborne is urgently in need of care, surely you can allow us to get her to hospital.” It was futile, deep down Illya knew it, and Napoleon knew it as well.  All the American needed was one small opening, just enough to divert the man's attention</p><p>Catherine Claiborne groaned, the little bit of life still in her fighting for survival.  Her status as a socialite had been too much of a temptation for Durham.  A low level THRUSH himself, he thought an infusion of cash would change his future within the Hierarchy.  Now he was walled in by UNCLE agents, and an angry Russian was ready to pull the trigger if anything went wrong.  Durham had to act like he had control, and holding a gun on Solo was his only play if he wanted to get out of here alive.</p><p>Each of the three men in the room were calculating the odds of survival if he should fail to do what was necessary.  Added to their own survival was the hope that Catherine Claiborne might also live past this encounter.  Napoleon's options were limited, but Illya might be able to do something.</p><p>In a split second of motion, Illya dove down, aiming at Durham. The major hesitated just long enough for Napoleon to duck as two shots were fired simultaneously.  Free of Durham’s grip, Napoleon watched as the major fell to the floor. Illya had put a bullet between his eyes, a fatal shot.</p><p>“Illya, you…’ Lying on the floor next to Catherine, Illya’s white shirt was showing a bloom of red.</p><p>“Oh no… Illya, buddy… oh god.” Napoleon looked again at Catherine, felt for a pulse.  Napoleon opened his communicator and called for help.  They were in Queens, near the newly constructed Shea Stadium.  Waverly assured him that there would be no delays getting help to the site.</p><p>"Hold on Illya, the cavalry's coming."</p><p>"I do not need an army... ' Illya stretched out his hand, reaching for Napoleon's arm.</p><p>"Miss Claiborne?" Napoleon shook his head.</p><p>"You did what you could, it was already too late my friend.  Illya?"  Napoleon removed his jacket and used it to staunch the blood flow from his partner.  The bullet appeared to have struck near his abdomen, but Napoleon didn’t know where exactly… there was so much blood.  The clock was moving too slowly, and all he could do was wait.</p><p>The minutes seemed to drag on.  Napoleon tried to keep Illya awake, but he was going into shock; too much blood loss, just like Miss Claiborne.  He couldn't think like that, help would be on the scene quickly; the UNCLE helicopter was being dispatched with medics on board. An ambulance would be arriving as soon as possible.  How many times had he sat by Illya's side, unsure of whether or not he would live through the latest assault.  Napoleon felt helpless, revisiting the past hour to see whether or not things might have turned out differently.</p><p>He heard the helicopter. The building they were in had an adjacent parking lot where it would land.  Before long voices rang out.</p><p>“Napoleon! Napoleon, where are you? Where…” It was April, and before she finished asking again she spotted her friends beyond the wide bay doors. It was bright outside, making it difficult to adjust to the darkness within the big warehouse.</p><p>“Over here, they’re in here!’’ She was directing the medical personnel, a doctor and a nurse; she remained outside to watch for the ambulance.  As much as she wanted to know how Illya was, she dreaded the scene she would encounter.  She had heard Napoleon’s call.</p><p>She knew it was bad.</p><p>Inside, the doctor went to work on Illya after ascertaining from Napoleon that Catherine Claiborne was dead. Too much blood loss from a severed femoral artery was more than she could  survive without immediate care.  Working on Kuryakin, Doctor Willem Holtquist was amazed that he was still hanging on; he was relieved to see the ambulance attendants, helping them to load the patient and opting to ride back with them to UNCLE Headquarters Medical Center. Looking at Napoleon Solo, he was certain that there would be two in Kuryakin’s room tonight, so typical of the partners in the Command.</p><p>There would be a clean up crew coming soon, the usual protocol after an event such as this.  Napoleon was reluctant to leave the woman whose life had been lost here, he was the agent on the scene and should be on hand when they arrived.  He felt ... defeated.</p><p>Napoleon walked slowly out of the darkened interior of the building, the brilliance of a sunny afternoon was in stark contrast to Napoleon’s frame of mind.  His partner was in critical condition, an innocent was dead.  The monster who caused all of it was also dead, whatever information they might have gleaned from him lost.  Not that Napoleon would grieve over it, the man deserved what he got.</p><p>April was still outside, waiting for her superior.  She had watched as Illya was loaded into the ambulance, a worried look on the doctor’s face doing little to encourage her.</p><p>“Napoleon, what happened in there?”  Of course there was always danger, but to lose an innocent was always a cause for concern and possibly review.</p><p>“Durham took Miss Claiborne as a hostage, hoping to collect a ransom from her father's business. It was a coincidence that we stumbled onto this; we had a lead that he would be somewhere close by.' Napoleon looked around, putting the details in order.</p><p>"Nothing was the way we'd been told, so Illya and I split up to look for him.  It might not have gone this way, but when I happened to walk in on him with Catherine, he threatened her, and then Illya showed up. When Durham saw…’ Napoleon paused, seeing again in his mind the scene that had just transpired.</p><p>“I guess Illya and I must have exchanged a look, a gesture… I don’t know.  But Durham caught it, and he slashed her leg.  She fell down, and there was so much blood...' Napoleon let his gaze shift elsewhere, once again seeing it all playing out in his mind.</p><p>"Illya reached for his gun, but the man suddenly had his gun at my temple.  I dropped mine, hoping he’d retreat.”</p><p>April could see the strain, heard it in Napoleon’s voice.  Partners, the best of them, were brothers in arms.  She understood, and she had Mark’s back on every mission, as he had hers.</p><p>“Napoleon, Illya will be alright.  Like he always says, he’s fine.” Not that she really believed it, her voice sounded weak and unsure.  They needed more than optimism this time.</p><p>“April, I’ve seen Illya hurt before. But he was so… ‘ Napoleon sighed, hating to say what he was thinking.</p><p>“He looked lifeless.  I don’t know if he’ll make it this time.” There were tears welling up in April Dancer’s eyes, making Napoleon regret he had verbalized his fears.  He wrapped his arms around her, knowing her affection for his friend went beyond camaraderie. They both needed Illya to live.</p><p>Very suddenly she straightened up, pushing Napoleon away and stepping back.  It was almost a rebuke as if he were analyzing her body language.</p><p>“That’s enough of that.  Illya will live, he’s going to live and we’re not going to say anything negative.  Ever. Never again.  Do you hear me? Illya won’t give up and neither will we.” It was a brave speech, and April hoped it was true.  So did Napoleon.</p><p>Alexander Waverly came down to the Medical wing in the early hours of the morning.  He wasn’t surprised to find Napoleon Solo asleep in the big recliner in Kuryakin’s room.  Because so many agents insisted on sitting bedside when their partners were stricken, certain rooms designated for critical patients were gifted with comfortable chairs.  Recliners made it easier for the waiting partner to get some sleep while fulfilling their need to keep vigil. Such was the case now, and while most of the staff were home in bed, Mr. Waverly was wandering the halls at two-thirty in the morning.</p><p>The nurse assigned to Illya’s care greeted the Chief with all of the pertinent information.  Mister Kuryakin was stable, the surgery to remove the bullet and repair of the artery had been a time sensitive procedure complicated by extreme loss of blood.  As Waverly observed his number two man, a flood of memories rushed from his past tours on battlefields littered with the bodies of fallen warriors.  Times like these weighed heavily on his heart and mind; an unwillingness to lose anyone was combating the need for sacrifice in their war on evil.</p><p>“Thank you Miss Kelly, I believe I will sit here with my agents for a bit.  We won’t wake Mister Solo… I’ll be fine.“  He dismissed the young nurse with a nod, glad to sit in the silence and grateful no one could see his tears behind the stern expression.  When he left the room, his resolve was still intact. Mister Kuryakin would live to fight yet another day.</p><p>Napoleon awoke to the sound of voices.  Doctor Holtquist was discussing the case with the new nurse on duty.  He mentally wiped away some of the fuzziness crowding in around his memory of the day before.  Illya looked a little better, not quite as pale as he remembered him being after coming back in from surgery.</p><p>“Mister Solo, I’m sorry if we woke you.”  Napoleon shook his head, a lock of hair falling over his eyebrow; he needed to remember to get a haircut before he started looking like Illya.  The thought of that made him smile just a little before turning his attention back to the doctor.</p><p>“No, no… I need to be up.  I still have to work for a living.” His attempt at humor was appreciated, but Holtquist and his nurse understood it was humor under duress.</p><p>“Illya, Mister Kuryakin… He’s going to be fine Napoleon.  It was a little too close for comfort, I don’t mind saying it now.  But, he’s going to be fine.  There will be some recovery time, of course, but a few days in here and then resting at home… I figure he can come back in on desk duty in about two weeks.  That’s not too bad, eh?”  A definite inflection in his words made Napoleon like the man even more than for his excellent work on Illya.</p><p>“No, not bad at all. Say, are you Canadian? I only ask because my mother’s family is Canadian; Quebec, which is why Illya dislikes my French accent.”</p><p>The bed sheets rustled before a low voice lamented over that comment.</p><p>“I dislike your accent because it is so awful.”</p><p>Napoleon smiled, a genuinely happy expression.  Illya was fine, just like always.</p><p>Perhaps he ought to say what he was thinking, to express his gratitude for Illya's life.  Perhaps he would say it… <em>in French.</em></p><p>
  <em> ******</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Times Square was hustling with activity, the stores filled with Christmas shoppers carrying bags where gifts were tucked inside and waiting to be wrapped in papers and ribbons.  In one of those stores a solemn scene was emerging as news of the death of Catherine Claiborne was announced to her father and mother. </p><p><em>A random act of violence, and two enforcement agents unable to save her.  One of them was also badly injured, but he would survive</em>.</p><p>Randall Claiborne ran a successful business, catering to a clientele that could afford his European imports of wine and gourmet food items.  The store itself was festooned with the trappings of the Christmas season; a crystal chandelier sparkled overhead as its light danced across the elegant displays.</p><p>Claiborne owned a home on Long Island and another one in Martha's Vineyard, symbolizing a lifestyle earned by cunning and hard work.  He should have been immune to this sort of tragedy; his money should have been a shelter.  Instead, it had been the reason for his daughter’s death at the hands of a madman. </p><p><em>Why?</em> It was a question that required an answer.</p><p>“What agency, what manner of <em>enforcement agent</em>, let my daughter die?”  The question was accompanied by a tone of accusation, as though the men who failed Catherine were somehow more responsible for her death than the man who struck the death blow.</p><p>“Sir, those men did everything in their power, they…’ Randall looked the agent in the eye, daring him to deny a thorough explanation of who had been on the scene.</p><p>“The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement fights crime, Mister Claiborne.  One man died, the one who, umm…. The man who killed Miss Claiborne. Another nearly died in an attempt to disarm him; it was all in an effort to save your daughter.’  There was a pause, an attempt to retain a tone of sympathy and calm.</p><p>“UNCLE is there for <em>you.</em> <em>We are here</em> to defend people such as your daughter.”</p><p>The Section III agent was named Collier Adams, and he was accompanied by a New York police officer named Jimmy Dawson.  Neither man felt comfortable with Claiborne’s attitude, he was assigning blame to the wrong people.</p><p>Marjorie Claiborne sat at a table normally reserved for customers who wished to sample some of the unctuous cheeses, or sip on French wine.  Surrounding her were the products that filled the store, and her family’s lives.</p><p>There were chocolates in decorative tins, caviar smuggled in from the Soviet Union.  There was every type of delicacy for the discerning connoisseurs in and around New York City.  She and her husband had built a small empire in this store, and the reason was simple: They had done it all for their daughter Catherine.</p><p>In this agonizing moment, the only thing going through Marjorie’s mind were memories of her beautiful daughter, and a rising hatred for anyone involved in her death. </p><p>It was now the end of the day, and the streetlights began to shine in the emerging darkness, along with Christmas lights installed in every store window.  The Claiborne shop, <em>Eurovista Gourmet</em>, had lights on a timer.  Even as the couple grieved, their store was suddenly lit with colorful lights around a cheery Christmas tableau in their display window. The glass sparkled, reflecting light from all directions.  Under different circumstances this would have been a charming scene, only now it seemed garish and crude.</p><p>Randall Claiborne had built his business on the good will of people he met during and after the war.  Some were business owners themselves, and once informed of Randall’s vision, they were eager to join his venture as exporters of fine food and wine.  The business collaboration proved to be a success, a prosperous venture indeed for all involved.</p><p>But now it all seemed worthless to the man whose daughter had been slain for the lust of wealth.  His wealth, his daughter… his grief.  His heart was breaking while his will to have some sort of retribution for the heinous act was strengthening with each passing minute.</p><p>“So, this agent who was nearly killed, will he live?” Both of the Claiborne’s listened for something that would satisfy them; they needed the satisfaction of knowing the one who had failed to save Catherine would suffer her fate as well.</p><p>“Agent Ku… the injured agent, ummm… he will recover.  He tried to save your daughter at the cost of his own life.” It was a feeble gesture to try and assuage the trauma of losing a loved one.  Collier Adams was beginning to have a bad feeling about all of this as he observed the faces and body language of these two.  He was beginning to think he shouldn’t have mentioned the organization that had sent him, the one Kuryakin and Solo served.</p><p>
  <em>He shouldn’t have said <strong>UNCLE</strong>.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Author: Alynwa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After Officer Dawson and Agent Adams left the Eurovista Gourmet, Randall and Marjorie looked at each other and then, by silent agreement, he disengaged the timer for the exterior holiday lighting and turned them off along with the main interior lights while she got two glasses and opened a bottle of 1960 Chateau Greysac.  She poured some in each glass and slid one in front of the seat her husband would occupy.</p><p>They had closed the shop after the two men had shown their IDs and explained why they were there.  The only light in the store now was a small chandelier over the table where they now sat.  Someone looking in wouldn’t be able to see them as they were hidden by a display case.</p><p>Randall took a long sip from his glass.  “What are you thinking, Marj?”</p><p>“I’m thinking it’s not fair that it’s almost Christmas and I’m, that <em>we’re </em>alive and Catherine isn’t.  I’m thinking that it’s not fair that I wasn’t the one to kill the man who sliced her leg.  I’m thinking that it’s not fair that these so – called law enforcement agents were unable to save her.  I’m thinking that I want them to pay somehow.”</p><p>He nodded agreement as he reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses.  “I’m constantly amazed by how often we are on the same wavelength.”  He looked around the store and sighed heavily.  “All of this was Cathy’s inheritance; our legacy.  It means nothing to me now without her.  She’s gone, so what’s the point?” </p><p>Marjorie swirled her wine as she thought.  “I agree,” she said.  “I have an idea; tell me if you think it’s crazy.  I can’t help it, Randy, I feel like whoever the agents are who tried to rescue Cathy, didn’t try hard enough.  What would you think of selling the shop and using the proceeds for a bounty on their heads?”   </p><p>“I don’t think it’s crazy, I mean, we’re not killers, but this time of year people aren’t buying businesses; they’re buying gifts for their children.”  The tears stood in his eyes and he swiped at them quickly, but not so quickly that his wife didn’t see them.</p><p>Marjorie reached over to stroke his arm.  “I know.  You’re right.  I’d already bought some jewelry for her.”</p><p>“Really?  Can you return it?  I have an idea.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A week later…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Honey!  I’m home!”</p><p>Illya replied, “Very amusing, Napoleon; I am in the living room!  I’m starving!  I hope dinner does not take too long to prepare.”</p><p>“I brought Chinese home for dinner,” Napoleon called from the kitchen.  “I’ll bring you a plate in a few minutes.  Honestly, Illya, someone would think you hadn’t eaten in days!  I left you a big bowl of soup.  Why didn’t you eat it?”</p><p>“I <em>did</em> eat it.  How long do you think chicken noodle soup lasts me?”</p><p>“I apologize; I forgot to whom I was speaking,” Napoleon said as he placed a plate piled high with shrimp egg foo young, rice and two egg rolls on the snack table in front of the Russian along with packs of soy sauce, duck sauce and Chinese mustard.  “There’s more in the kitchen beyond what I plan to eat, so you should be able to fill your stomach.”</p><p>After three days in Medical, Doctor Holtquist declared Illya well enough to recuperate at home with his partner taking care of him, which meant staying in Napoleon’s penthouse as the CEA refused to spend the night in Illya’s flat unless he was way too drunk to do anything else.</p><p>“I had an interesting meeting with the Old Man and Collier Adams today,” Napoleon said as he sat on the couch next to his partner and put his dinner on the coffee table.  “Officer Dawson of NYPD’s Midtown South contacted Collier earlier today to say that Catherine Claiborne’s parents want to meet with us.  As you know, law enforcement has UNCLE’s direct number, so when they couldn’t find it, they reached out to Officer Dawson to pass along their request.”</p><p>Illya swallowed his food and took a big swig of water from his glass.  “I imagine they want to know about Catherine’s last moments, if their daughter said anything or if she suffered.  That is understandable.  What made the meeting interesting?”</p><p>“Collier doesn’t think it’s a good idea to meet with them.  He told me that after he and the cop left the Claibornes, he reported to Waverly that he felt like they were grief-stricken, but also quite angry that their child hadn’t been saved.  Collier feels like they’re looking for someone, us specifically, to blame.”</p><p>“Collier had just delivered devastating, shocking news to them.  Of course, they were angry.”</p><p>Napoleon’s eyes widened in surprise.  “I have to say, Partner, I’m a bit surprised by your attitude.  Usually, you’re not the most trusting fellow around.  Are you saying you <em>want</em> to meet with them?”</p><p>The last forkful of food disappeared into the blond’s mouth.  “I understand loss, Napoleon,” he said softly.  “I know what it is like to be told that someone you love…I know what that is like.  That is why I think we should consider it.  Did Mr. Waverly have an opinion?”</p><p>“It’s our decision to make.  You have a few more days before you can return to light duty, so you have time to think about what you want to do.  I will say this: Collier said he wouldn’t go back to see them and he seems like a level – headed guy.  If you want to go, we’ll go.  If you don’t, we won’t.  It’s just that simple to me.”  He collected both their plates.  “Want me to bring your vodka?  I’m going to have a drink.”</p><p>Illya snorted.  “What do you think?”</p><p>Napoleon chuckled as he fetched glasses, ice and vodka from the kitchen.  When he returned to the living room, he got his bottle of single malt Scotch from the bar and rejoined his partner on the couch.  They clinked their glasses together and then drank.  “So.  What are you getting me for Christmas?”</p><p>“What makes you think I was planning to buy you a gift?”</p><p>“I was a very good boy this year; why wouldn’t you buy me a gift?” he joked.  Napoleon’s smile faded.  “You really had me scared this time, Illya.  Even Holtquist said it was a close call.  I’m kidding, you don’t have to buy me anything; you being here is the best present I could ask for.”</p><p>Illya patted his partner’s shoulder.  “The holiday season truly does make you a sentimental blockhead.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Author: LeetheT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Dear, I’d like you to meet Mr.—”</p><p>“Shiv,” the man said.</p><p>Marjorie didn’t offer to shake hands; she wasn’t confident she’d get hers back. The man wasn’t large – medium height, but solid and trim and hard all over, with a face like a chip of granite and stony, dead eyes that measured the world through one filter: prey.</p><p>A cold chill snaked up her spine. We’re in over our heads. She shook it off and forced a smile. “How do you do, Mr.—”</p><p>“Just Shiv.”</p><p>A long scar traced his left jawbone and another zigzagged under his right eye. What could have cut into <em>this</em> man, she couldn’t guess.</p><p>Randall forced a jauntiness that she knew he wasn’t feeling. “Well, old man, our sources say you’re just the fellow for this task. Say … by the way … how did …?” He traced his own jawline, and she saw his hand tremble.</p><p>Shiv smiled and Marjorie nearly fainted.</p><p>“Some punk took his best shot,” Shiv said. “Then I took mine.”</p><p>White-faced, Randall rubbed his hands together. “Well. Excellent. Let me tell you what we need from you…and you can tell us, perhaps, the best way to achieve that.”</p><p>~*~*~</p><p>Alexander Waverly, eyes distant, puffed thoughtfully on his pipe as his two agents patiently waited. He’d already indicated his indifference to their meeting with the Claibornes – what could he want now?</p><p>Waverly removed the pipe. “Gentlemen, on reconsideration, I think it’s a good idea you meet the Claibornes. A very good idea.”</p><p>Napoleon felt his eyes pop. He glanced at Illya, who said, incredulous, “Sir?”</p><p>Waverly tapped a slim file on his desktop, spun it so that file stopped in front of his agents.</p><p>“It appears there is more to the Claibornes – and their business – than meets the eye.”</p><p>Napoleon scowled. “Oh … not THRUSH?” He couldn’t believe it. He picked up the folder, opening it so he and Illya could both scan it.</p><p>“No, no, not THRUSH. But it appears that their trade is not entirely, shall we say, above board.”</p><p>“They own a restaurant,” Napoleon blurted, but he was already calculating in his own mind. “What on earth could they be doing wrong?”</p><p>“Slave labor?” Illya suggested.</p><p>“On the nose, Mr Kuryakin,” Waverly stated. “They are engaged in human trafficking. Not simply for their restaurant – that would be, as they say, small potatoes, hardly rising to the level of UNCLE intervention. But I’ve learned that they are in fact a hub, a distributor of forced labor for multiple businesses in and around the Eastern Seaboard. To make matters worse, their primary … is upsetting our relations with the already unstable government of a South American nation that is struggling toward democracy.”</p><p>“So you’d like us to find out how they’re doing what they’re doing, and stop it,” Napoleon cut to the chase.</p><p>“Precisely.” Waverly turned back to his control panel as if he’d said all he needed to. After a second, Napoleon realized that he had. He collected his partner with a glance and they departed.</p><p>As they walked side by side to the UNCLE motor pool office, Napoleon saw his partner shaking his head.</p><p>“Something bothering you?”</p><p>“Hard to believe such a nice girl could have such nefarious parents,” Illya observed.</p><p>“Let’s go get some coal to put in their stockings,” Napoleon cracked, and his partner almost smiled.</p><p>~*~*~</p><p>They drove their UNCLE sedan out of the underground parking lot and straight into holiday-weight traffic.</p><p>Napoleon sighed. “Why did we agree to this again?”</p><p>“Because we were ordered to.” Illya’s tone was flat, no-argument-permitted.</p><p>“Oh. Right.”</p><p>“The upside is we don’t have to pretend to be nice to them,” Illya added.</p><p>“When have you ever bothered to pretend to be nice to anyone?” Napoleon cracked, grinning at the pout on his partner’s face that admitted he’d scored a minor goal. “But I do see your point. I doubt, however, they’re in the sort of mood that would make them let us peruse their books or their kitchen.”</p><p>~*~*~</p><p>Napoleon cursed mentally and eased the hold of his gloved hands on the wheel. They’d managed to get a few blocks in only, by his estimation, 17 years, but they still had a way to go and the traffic seemed to be getting worse. For the third or fourth time he found himself instinctively reaching to turn on the heat, then stopping himself. It was easier to keep his coat done up than listen to Illya’s snide remarks about soft Americans who couldn’t stand up to a mild winter chill.</p><p>His own coat over the seat back, Illya sat comfortably beside him in his suit coat only, eyes on the traffic.</p><p>“The restaurant is right up here …” he said, sitting forward – and the light changed.</p><p>Damn.</p><p>They were at a busy intersection, chock full of both cars and pedestrians, and nothing was moving.</p><p>“Can you see?” Napoleon craned his own neck.</p><p>Illya was doing the same. “I think … a fender bender, as you call them, in the intersection.” He sat back. “Might as well relax.”</p><p>“Easy for you to say. It’s cold in here.” Napoleon offered up a dramatic shiver and hunkered down into his coat.  Illya rolled his eyes.</p><p>Before long the honking and shouting, typical of bottlenecked city traffic, began.</p><p>Amongst the racket, the agents only heard the sound of the helicopter until it was directly overhead.</p><p>“What the hell?” Both men stretched to try to see what was going on.</p><p>Something – at first they thought it was the chopper – crashed into the roof of their car. Then four metal claws came down and smashed into the sides, pinning the doors to the tune of groaning metal and shattering glass.</p><p>Both men instantly tried to scramble free of the car but the metal arms, by chance or design, blocked both front and back seat egress. Napoleon braced himself in the rocking car and set both heels to the shattered windshield, kicking with all his strength.</p><p>“We’re going up!” Illya shouted over the noise of chopper and the grinding crunch of metal-on-metal.</p><p>The windshield buckled and flopped onto the hood, but by then the car was swaying about 10 feet in the air and rising swiftly. Napoleon crawled partway out onto the hood, in time to see the traffic below still in a quagmire and dozens of heads craned out their car windows, looking up.</p><p>He too looked up, took in a large Chinook-type chopper hovering in grey, cloud-covered skies, then pulled himself back in as the car swayed in the icy wind.</p><p>The partners looked at one another. Illya shrugged.</p><p>“I guess we’re in for a ride,” Napoleon called out. He pulled out his communicator and tried to contact HQ, but got only static. Illya did the same and got the same result.</p><p>“Some kind of jamming?” Illya suggested. “From the helicopter?”</p><p>“Maybe.” They both continued trying for a few minutes before setting their communicators to tracer function and putting them away. It was the most they could do.</p><p>Keeping their their eyes peeled to the landscape in order to get some sense of direction, they managed to get a sense that they were headed north before the cold and wind forced them to huddle inside the car, close together, their coats pulled tight around them (Illya had finally been forced to don his). The sun was sinking into the cloudy West, and it was bound to get even colder very soon.</p><p>Napoleon found himself lost in thought. Who could it be? Did it have anything to do with the Claibornes? They had so many enemies it was impossible to guess, except that this enemy obviously had the wherewithal to hire or buy a military style chopper – and the chutzpah to use it to hijack them off a busy city street. Napoleon smiled – you had to give whoever it was credit for style.</p><p>“I don’t see anything to smile about,” Illya called out sourly over the sound of wind and chopper.</p><p>Napoleon shrugged – Illya probably couldn’t see it, they were snuggled so close together, but he’d feel it. “Call me an optimist. Where there’s life there’s hope.”</p><p>Illya snorted. A few minutes later he stiffened – Napoleon felt it a moment before he, too, felt the cause.</p><p>“We’re going down,” Illya confirmed. Both men instinctively edged to the windows to try to see what was happening but it was already to dark to make out more than indistinct landscapes below. The ride grew rougher as the chopper descended, still at speed, and both men grabbed hold of whatever they could as they plummeted toward … whatever was coming next.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. author: pfrye23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The wind from the broken windshield whistled about the interior of the car as it continued on it's rapid drop. Suddenly the metal claws that had gripped the car opened and the car was in free fall. Napoleon and Illya tucked themselves down on the floor and shielded their heads.</p><p>The car fell and then crashed into the snow covered ground. Several minutes later Napoleon gasped as he became conscious. The cold air and the snow coming in the broken car helping to clear his mind. He felt for his Special and communicator and they were gone. "Illya?" He felt around the car for his partner. He found Illya still knocked out laying half out of what was left of the side window. Napoleon tried to wipe his face thinking melted snow was running down his cheek, his hand came away dark with blood. He took some snow and scrubbed his face clean, then scooted out of the car and tried to stand, The pain from his leg and back took his breath away, but he struggled over to where Illya was noting the footprints around the car. Obviously the helicopter crew had been here and removed his weapon. He wondered where they were. He knew they needed to get to cover to hide from the helicopter crew and also to gain some shelter from the elements.</p><p>Napoleon checked out his partner. His pulse was slow and he couldn't see any blood. He felt for broken bones but the cold had made his hands numb. Saying a mental prayer he grabbed Illya by his shoulders and pulled him from the car.</p><p>He grabbed Illya and pulled him into a fireman's carry over his shoulder and started to trudge through the snow towards a line of trees he saw in the distance. As he struggled to carry his partner he didn't notice the metal post a few yards from the car. A camera on top of the post swung and tracked his slow and painful looking progress.</p><p>*****************************</p><p>At the Claiborne home on Martha's Vineyard Randall and Marjorie sat in front of their in-home theatre sipping wine and enjoying caviar and toast as they watched the live feed of Napoleon struggling to carry his partner through the snow. Marjorie smiled as she turned to Randall, "I loved the part where the car crashed to the ground."</p><p>"I think our money has been well spent." Randall agreed "we can watch their suffering and then direct their end!"</p><p>Marjorie smiled and lifted her drink in a toast "to suffering!"</p><p>****************************************</p><p>Napoleon fell as his leg gave out. He pulled himself up and sat with his back against an Ash tree. He pulled Illya into his lap and wrapped his arms around him trying to share his body heat. Napoleon didn't notice the camera in a nearby tree. "Come on partner, I need some help here." He muttered.</p><p>Illya groaned and tried to push Napoleon away.</p><p>"Illya, be still. I've got you."</p><p>"Oh, I don't feel very good." Illya opened his eyes and looked around. "Where are we?"</p><p>"I haven't the foggiest idea. How are you?"</p><p>"Fine" Illya gasped and doubled over coughing. Blood dripped from his lips. "Maybe not so fine Napoleon."</p><p>"Possible internal damage?"</p><p>"Maybe, I don't know."</p><p>Just then a bullet hit the tree just above Napoleon's head. A hard emotionless voice floated out of the dark. "I'd keep moving if I were you, gentlemen. The show's just started."</p><p>*****************************</p><p>Mr. Waverly was not happy. No one had been able to track the helicopter that had snatched his two agents and their car off of the street. He had calls into the military to see if they had any radar tracking that might give UNCLE a hint as to what had happened. The Clairborne's had apparently gone to their Martha's Vineyard home to grieve their daughter and hadn't been seen. He sent Collier Adams to keep an eye on them. Waverly had his doubts about the couple and always followed his instincts.</p><p>******************************</p><p>Napoleon stood and helped Illya to his feet. "Can you walk?"</p><p>"Ill try."</p><p>Together they slowly hobbled off through the trees, an occasional shot kept them moving. If they stopped or tried to go too far to one side or another a well placed bullet kept them moving.</p><p>Illya stopped a moment and spat blood. "We are being herded Napoleon."</p><p>"I know partner. I'm just not sure why, or to where."</p><p>A shot hit the snow by his feet.</p><p>"I guess we'll eventually find out." Illya groaned and they started their slow painful trudge forward, deeper into the woods.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Author: selyndae</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Struggling in the cold, they were now completely surrounded by trees. Even here the snow was relentless. The trees gave little respite from the bulk of the wet, heavy snow and the howling wind, still painfully sharp, cutting through their clothing and loud enough to make hearing difficult.</p><p>The long slogging, struggling to stay upright, narrowed Napoleon’s world to putting one foot in front of the other. For now, anyway, the gunfire had stopped. <em>We must be moving enough.</em></p><p>Even as the trees offered some small protections from the harsh elements, they also shut out the faint winter light, making it look and feel more like midnight, than late afternoon. The snow on the ground reflected just barely enough to see.</p><p>As they moved deeper into the woods, he idly noticed it wasn’t an old one with thick, well-established trees, but rather a younger one with spindly trees crowded together in clumps, intertwined with dead tangled vines and brambles, which caught and scratched at their arms and legs.</p><p>“Oomph!”</p><p>A hidden root caught Napoleon’s foot. He flailed, trying to keep his balance, but the numbing cold and injuries made that impossible. The fall brought both agents down, landing hard.</p><p>They lay in a heap, unable to move, breathing heavily trying to catch their breath for a long, agonizing moment. Finally, Napoleon cautiously moved his leg to see if he’d injured it. Satisfied that nothing (aside from his dignity and ruined suit) was damaged, he sat up at touched Illya’s arm.</p><p>“You okay?”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>“Well then, we have to go.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I don’t need to be shot, so let’s go.” Napoleon sat up.</p><p>Illya sighed and started to move, then stopped abruptly. Frowning, he looked around. “They aren’t shooting.”</p><p>“Huh?” Sitting up straighter, he looked around, listening intently. “You’re right. But…this <em>can’t</em> be where they want us. There’s nothing here.”</p><p>Illya had been looking and listening as well. “It does seem to be lacking.”</p><p>Napoleon finally got to his feet. Reaching down, he offered his partner a hand up.</p><p>Even standing, peering through the dark still revealed only trees and snow. “What now?”</p><p><em>“Listen,”</em> hissed Illya.</p><p>Puzzled, Napoleon listened for a moment, but all he could hear was the faint, irregular rustle of leaves as the heavy snow dropped through the trees. He shrugged before leaning over to whisper back, “Nothing. You?”</p><p>Illya shook his head slowly. “No.”</p><p>“Maybe they gave up…” He made a face at Illya’s eye roll. “Right. But…freezing to death is so anticlimactic. I really expected more, didn’t you?”</p><p>“Yes, it does seem to be rather prosaic...” He paused and spat.</p><p>It was really too dark to see clearly, but Napoleon was afraid it was more blood.</p><p>Illya’s breath hitched a little as he tried to straighten up. He didn’t need to see his partner to know he was worried about him. He managed a tiny grin; Napoleon couldn’t see it, but he would hear it. “A deplorable extravagance of resources. If all they were going to do was have us perish from hypothermia, they could have tied us up and left us out in the open.”</p><p>Napoleon clutched his coat a little tighter. “This <em>could</em> be just what it looks like—a quiet…end.”</p><p>“If that’s the case, I categorically refuse.”</p><p>“I’m with you there, partner.” He stiffened as if suddenly aware of something odd. He stared hard at the woods.</p><p>“What?” Illya’s whisper was very quiet.</p><p>Napoleon’s answer was slow and even. “Doesn’t it seem much darker? As in, <em>suddenly</em> much darker?”</p><p>“Yes. Yes, it does.” Illya carefully turned around before stopping at a point to their left. “This way.”</p><p>Napoleon blinked in the darkness, trying to see what made it different. Nothing. Nevertheless, he moved closer and wrapping his left arm around his partner. It was the only way they could travel now.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s getting too difficult to see them,” pouted Marjorie.</p><p>Her husband frowned. “There really should be some sort of lighting for—”</p><p>The picture went completely dark, leaving behind random patterns of static!</p><p>This is not what we paid for.” Reluctantly standing, he walked over to the telephone and glanced at the small desk. “Where did you put that number, dear?”</p><p>“Oh…” Randall turned to look at his wife. “I…think I left it at store.” At her husband’s glare, she added tartly, “In the safe! I’m quite sure of that, now.”</p><p>Randall sighed. “Then, we’ll just have to wait and see.”</p><p>His wife shifted restlessly in her seat, uneasy at the turn in the evening’s ‘entertainment.’</p><p>
  <em>BRRRING.</em>
</p><p>The Claibornes froze, startled at the sound of the phone.</p><p>They looked at each other for a moment before Randall picked up the receiver. “Hello?”</p><p>
  <em>“The storm has caused a small delay.”</em>
</p><p>“I see. With whom am I speaking?”</p><p>
  <em>“Uh, Joe? Yeah, Joe.”</em>
</p><p>“Very well…Joe. So we will be able to continue our, er, viewing soon?”</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, soon. Sh— uh, my boss says they’ll have a generator here if the power isn’t back on in the next hour.”</em>
</p><p>“Very well. I,” He glanced at his wife. “<em>We</em> shall look forward to seeing it.” The phone clicked leaving a dial tone. Staring at the phone a moment, Randall finally hung it up before going over to the bar and selecting another bottle of wine which he opened dexterously.</p><p>“Was that from… Shiv?” Marjorie’s voice trembled slightly (although whether from fear of their hired gun or from her husband’s well-hidden temper was uncertain).</p><p>“An associate, I think. There has been some sort of power outage due to the storm, but I’ve been assured power will be restored soon.”</p><p>“Hmm, so they have a storm to deal with as well… That sounds very nice…lovely.” Her smile was not a nice one at all.</p><p>Judging the wine had breathed enough, Randall brought it over to pour another glass for himself and his wife.</p><p> </p><p>The trees were definitely smaller and less dense in this direction. They hadn’t been trudging for too long when the ground suddenly sloped downward. The abrupt change caused Illya to slip and if Napoleon hadn’t been there, would have fallen. Panting from the pain, they stood still, trying to catch their breath.</p><p>Below them was an ice-covered brook. It was hard to see through the snow, but Napoleon had a sinking feeling that the ice was thin. Getting wet—no, getting <em>wetter</em> was a really bad idea!</p><p>“Na-napoleon, do you…see it?”</p><p>Worried anew at his partner’s weakened voice, he struggled to keep his voice from showing it. “Where?”</p><p>“The…sky.”</p><p>Napoleon looked up at the sky. Heavy clouds were barely visible through heavy snow. At first, that was all he could see through the sparse trees. Then he saw it!</p><p>
  <em>Faint flashes of red lights—<b>regular</b> flashes!</em>
</p><p>But, before they could react, they heard the distinctive sound of a gun magazine being slammed into place!</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Author: Mrua7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gunshots continued to ring out as Napoleon and Illya struggled in the snow, ducking as yet another bullet whizzed overhead, hitting a nearby tree.</p><p>Whoever it was was obviously a good shot, but with the falling snow and the surrounding trees, the rifle repeat was becoming more muffled.</p><p>What fate awaited them wasn’t clear, though if this kept up they would eventually freeze to death, so maybe that was the convoluted plan for their demise after all. The agents had no idea where they were being driven, if anyplace; maybe they were just being moved in circles?</p><p>Illya was gasping, struggling to breathe as he held his side, though he remained silent, he was obviously in pain.</p><p>The two men remained low, with Napoleon speaking barely above a whisper.</p><p>“Do we head towards the red light?”</p><p>“As I said earlier, we are being herded...what choice do we have? If we head away from it or towards it, I suspect we will be shot at again.”</p><p>“Call it a hunch tovarisch, but I have a feeling that light isn’t supposed to be here.”</p><p>“Your hunches have gotten us into trouble before Napoleon. May I remind you that you do have a tendency to get us lost.”</p><p>“Gee thanks for that vote of confidence…Illya what exactly is lost at this point?”</p><p>“True. Whither thou goest then.”</p><p>“We head towards the light then.” Napoleon suddenly realized that might be a bit prophetic as people with near-death experiences have described being drawn towards a light, though not a flashing red one.</p><p>As Kuryakin rose he hissed, that was his first acknowledgement that his pain was increasing.</p><p>“You okay?”</p><p>“Really? You need to ask?” Illya pointed in the direction of the flashing light. “Just go.”</p><p>Solo helped support his partner as they weaved around the trees. The snow was falling heavier now with large flakes quickly covering their tracks.</p><p>They heard another gunshot in the distance, but it seemed as though their deadly shepherd may have lost sight of his wandering sheep.</p><p>As they finally emerged from the woods they finally saw the source of the flashing light.</p><p>It sat atop the roof of a red pickup truck; the vehicle was just sitting there idling. Attached to the front of it was a snowplow.</p><p>It seemed as though the driver had just stopped and was just sitting there on a snow covered road.</p><p>The agents staggered towards the vehicle, with Napoleon tapping on the passenger side window.</p><p>The door opened wide and inside was a rather unexpected sight.</p><p>Sitting behind the steering wheel was a rather robust man with a full head of white hair and quite a long beard.</p><p>He was wearing what looked like a pair of red long john underwear, suspenders and a pair of black corduroy pants.</p><p>“Ho-ho-ly smokes! What are you two doing out in this storm? You’re not wearing coats and galoshes...good way to catch your death.”</p><p>“Car accident, my friend is hurt. Could you help us?”Napoleon asked through chattering teeth.</p><p>“Why of course, hop in boys!”</p><p>Solo climbed in, helping his partner up onto the bench seat; he leaned across Illya, pulling the door shut.</p><p>The warmth from the heater in the cab brought quick relief to the half-frozen agents.</p><p>“Here,” the driver reached down below the seat, producing a thermos. “Help yourselves to some hot coco.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Napoleon gratefully accepted the thermos, unscrewing the cap and pouring out the hot libation into the plastic up. He offered it to Illya but the Russian waved it off.</p><p>The American took a sip,” Oh that’s good.” He held it out to Illya, this time insisting his partner drink.</p><p>Once tasting it, Kuryakin drained the cup.</p><p>“You boys are in need of some medical attention,” the driver said. “There’s a hospital not far from here, but it’s going to take a bit to get there because of the snowfall; haven’t had this big a storm in years. Kind of caught people off guard.”</p><p>“Yes, a hospital would be good. Thank you,” Illya finally spoke up.</p><p>Their rescuers appearance wasn’t lost on Solo and he couldn’t resist asking.</p><p>“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Nick, would it?”</p><p>“Ho-ho, why yes it is. I’m sure you’re guessing that by the way I look. My name is Nicholaí Rozhdestvo, but you can call me Nick; I’ve been playing Santa for years at a local department store...hair and beard turned pure white on me a few years ago. Given my name and the look, I found a way to supplement my income since I retired. Snow plowing hasn’t exactly been lucrative for a while now.”</p><p>“Well Nick, My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo and this wretched soul is Illya Kuryakin.”</p><p>“Kuryakin? Ty russkiy?”</p><p>“Da.” Illya coughed into his hand, revealing a little more blood.</p><p>“We better get you some help!” Nicholaí put the truck into gear, heading out with the plow clearing the way for them.</p><p>“I never thought Grandfather Frost would be coming to our rescue,” Illya mumbled as he leaned against the door; he was finding it difficult to sit up at this point.</p><p>Nick let out a real belly laugh, ”Miraculous things have been known to happen; it is after midnight, so Merry Christmas boys.”</p><p>He reached forward, turning on the radio.</p><p>“Okay, Simon? Okay Okay, Theodore? Okay Okay, Alvin? Alvin? Alvin!<br/>Okay! Christmas, Christmas time is near Time for toys and time for cheer<br/>We've been good, but we can't last, Hurry Christmas, hurry fast...”</p><p>Napoleon couldn’t help but smile, “Same to you Nick.”</p><p>It was at that moment Illya slumped forward.</p><p>*************</p><p>Three men stepped up to the front door of the Claiborne House.One man wearing a heavy tweed outer coat was flanked by two men wearing black trench coats.</p><p>He reached out, taking hold of the brass wolf’s head door knocker. Above it was an engraved brass plate with an inscription;</p><p>it was a motto in Latin, “Confide recti agens,” meaning,“Have the confidence to do what is right.”</p><p>“How ironic,” Alexander Waverly thought to himself as he tapped the door knocker, making their presence known.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Author: ssclassof56</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Illya sat in the front row of the darkened theater. The remaining seats were empty. This was a command performance for an audience of one.</p><p>The orchestra, ghostly shadows in the pit, began to play. A single spotlight aimed its narrow beam at center stage and illuminated a prima ballerina. Her white, spangled costume shone with a blinding brilliance. Illya squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dazzling light.</p><p>
  <em>Dah-dee dah dum dah dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dah-dee-dum.</em>
</p><p>The Sugar Plum Fairy danced around the stage, captivating him with her graceful movements and impeccable timing. When she began a series of triple pirouettes, Illya leapt to his feet and applauded, overcome with admiration.</p><p>He remained standing until the Sugar Plum Fairy held her final pose, then clapped again wildly. Her smile vanished, and she shrieked. The Mouse King, bloodied and grisly, lurched into the circle of light. His saber slashed downwards. Scarlet droplets ravaged the pristine beauty of the ballerina’s costume. As she screamed and collapsed, clutching her leg, the Mouse King turned toward Illya. He dropped the saber and pulled a pistol from his belt. Its report was lost in a timpani barrage.</p><p>Illya felt the slam of the bullet into his gut. Cradling his abdomen, he slumped to the floor as the stage went black.</p><p>&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;</p><p>The storm had downed the power and telephone lines, and the majority of the generator’s output was being consumed by more vital resources. Napoleon examined a wall sign in the dim emergency light. <em>Visitors Are Requested To Refrain From Smoking.</em> He turned with a grimace and looked across the tiny waiting area of the tiny clinic which Nick had generously referred to as ‘the hospital.’ The snowplow driver sat back in a Naugahyde armchair, his hands folded atop his large belly, and puffed on a pipe.</p><p>“Are you sure she’s good?” Napoleon asked.</p><p>Nick took the pipe from his mouth. “Of course, she’s good. And I’m not saying that because she’s my granddaughter. Best doctor for miles.”</p><p>“The only doctor for miles,” Napoleon grumbled.</p><p>Nick resumed his puffing. The hand on his belly bounced as he chuckled. “That means she’s seen just about everything, from Mrs. Jessup’s breech baby to Ben Harper darn near cutting off his own toe while chopping wood. That also includes plenty of folks banged up in car accidents.”</p><p>Napoleon frowned at the double doors through which the lovely but alarmingly young Dr. Rozhdestvo had whisked Illya minutes before. His partner’s body would tell its own tales. Napoleon wondered if she had ever seen anything like an UNCLE agent.</p><p>&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;</p><p>Illya was chilly, and his side hurt abominably. Somewhere in the distance, a jazz album played. Duke Ellington. “Sugar Rum Cherry.” Perhaps he was in his own apartment. But why was he lying on his back on the cold, hard linoleum?</p><p>He scoured his memory. A flying car. Gunfire. Grandfather Frost. Was he drunk...or drugged?</p><p>Illya cracked open his eyes. A young woman’s face hovered above him. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were a bright, shining blue. A crown of light, like sun-struck icicles, surrounded her head.</p><p>“Snegurochka,” he whispered.</p><p>Her lips twitched. “It’s a little early for presents from the Snow Maiden. But don’t worry, Mr. Kuryakin. We’ll have you up and around in time for the New Year.”</p><p>A polyethylene mask was fitted over his mouth and nose. He heard the hiss of gas. “Sleep now,” she said. “When you wake up again, I promise you’ll feel better.”</p><p>Soft fingertips stroked his forehead. “Pleasant dreams,” she murmured.</p><p>His eyelids felt heavy. As they drifted downwards, the light grew brighter, and the music louder. When he opened them again he found himself on a stage holding his bass. The band that surrounded him was in mid-performance. Illya looked at the music on his stand. “Sugar Rum Cherry.” His fingers began to pluck his part. From behind the piano, Ellington nodded to him. A pleasant dream, indeed.</p><p>&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;</p><p>An hour passed before Dr. Rozhdestvo returned to the waiting area. Napoleon threw aside an outdated magazine and stood. In the armchair beside him, Nick awoke with a snort.</p><p>“How’s your patient, doctor?” Napoleon asked.</p><p>“Fair.” She flipped a heavy braid as thick as her wrist off her shoulder. “He’ll be uncomfortable for several days, but he’ll recover.”</p><p>Nick laughed merrily. “Ho-ho. Didn’t I tell you Nastya was good?”</p><p>“So you did.” A suave smile curved Napoleon’s lips. “Tell me, when can I, ah, see him?”</p><p>“Soon,” the petite blonde answered. “But I should examine you first.”</p><p>Napoleon smoothed the lapels of his ruined suit. “Just bumps and bruises. I seem to have had better luck than my friend.”</p><p>Her shining blue eyes held his. “Then I presume you aren’t also recovering from a gunshot wound.”</p><p>Napoleon’s smile faltered. Nick rose to his feet. “What?”</p><p>She nodded. “And not his first, either.”</p><p>Nick stroked his white beard thoughtfully. “It seems there’s more to you boys than meets the eye. You wouldn’t by any chance be fugitives from justice, would you?”</p><p>Napoleon grimaced. “Not from justice.”</p><p>“Then there was no car accident after all,” Dr. Rozhdestvo said scornfully.</p><p>“Oh, there was, of a sort.” Napoleon’s gaze swung from the diminutive young physician to her burly grandfather. “I’ll tell you the whole story, though it’s not a jolly holiday tale. Mr. Kuryakin and I work for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement…”</p><p>&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;</p><p>Nick drew the red pickup truck to a stop and cut the engine. “Here it is.”</p><p>Napoleon peered out the windshield. Beyond the steady fall of heavy, wet flakes, the headlights picked out a large sign. <em>Private Property. Trespassers will be shot.</em> “They’re not kidding, either.”</p><p>“This is the main entrance. I found you boys down along the south boundary.”</p><p>”And you’re sure this property belongs to the Claibornes.”</p><p>“Of course. Used to be the McDougall place, the best farm in the county. When old Fred passed, those Claiborne people snapped it up before he was even in the ground.” Nick shook his head at the tangle of scrub and brambles that surrounded the sign. “No one round here’s ever laid eyes on them. They don’t farm it themselves, and they won’t rent it to those who would. But woe be it to any man who strays into those trees. I hear the property’s full of security cameras.”</p><p>“Really?” Napoleon said. “I’d like to get a closer look at that.”</p><p>“Then someone’s bound to get a look at you.”</p><p>Napoleon flashed a humorless grin. “I’ve a feeling they already have.”</p><p>&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;</p><p>“This is an outrage,” Randall Claiborne bellowed. “It’s not enough that UNCLE’s gross incompetence led to Cathy’s death. Now you invade our private home with wild accusations about kidnapping and slavery.”</p><p>“Come now, Claiborne, I’ve said nothing of the kind,” Waverly replied calmly. His dispassionate gaze flicked from the jar of Russian caviar and open wine bottles on the bar to the staticky view screen on the far wall, then returned to the angry, frightened couple. The canny blue eyes widened, and the shaggy brows rose slightly. “I’ve merely shared a few interesting facts that have come to our attention. No one will be happier than I if you can provide us with a reasonable explanation.”</p><p>Marjorie curled her lip. “We don’t have to tell you anything. You’ll regret this. We’ll have your job. Maybe worse.” Her husband gripped her arm painfully, and she blenched. “That is, I mean…”</p><p>“We’ll press charges,” Randall interjected with a snarl. “Slander. Defamation. Criminally negligent homi—”</p><p>The telephone’s ring broke in on his tirade. The Claibornes jumped. Marjorie’s face grew ashen, and her eyes darted to Randall. He shook his head slightly.</p><p>“Doesn’t someone wish to answer that?” Waverly asked. “It might be important.”</p><p>Randall gave a sharp, dismissive wave of his hand. “They’ll call back.”</p><p>When the ringing finally ceased, Waverly said, “Where were we? Oh, yes. You were saying something about homicide, Claiborne.”</p><p>With a sound like a whimper, Marjorie moved to the bar and poured a glass of wine with trembling hands. Randall followed and squeezed her shoulders. “Our daughter is dead,” he said tightly, “and your agents are responsible. The law will hold them accountable.”</p><p>“The law will have a difficult time with that unless they’re found. I sent them out to keep their appointment with you and haven’t seen them since.”</p><p>“Neither have we,” Marjorie stammered defiantly. “The cowards never kept that appointment.”</p><p>Behind the couple’s backs, the static on the view screen resolved into an image. The face of Napoleon Solo, snow-flecked and grimacing, cocked from side to side. Waverly’s shoulders relaxed as one untamed brow shut upwards. “Are you quite certain?” he asked, staring intently at the picture.</p><p>The Claibornes turned to look at the far wall. Marjorie’s wine glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. “Randall,” she shrieked as the telephone rang again.</p><p>“Answer that, would you, please, Mr. Adams?” Waverly said to his agent. “I wish to speak to whoever is on the line.”</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Who's in Trouble Now? by GirlintheGlen</h2></a>
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        <em>Napoleon couldn’t remember a crazier Christmas, and he had a few to choose from.  This one was truly bizarre.  His mind was trying to locate some other time when his favorite holiday had been hijacked by a lunatic when he located the camera he knew had been tracking him and Illya through the woods.</em>
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      <p>As Alexander Waverly watched his agent investigate the camera lens, a small smile crept across his face.  He was going to enjoy this little ‘interview’ with the Claibornes.  The Old Man might look the part of an aging English gentleman, but beneath the tweeds and the pleasant demeanor was an old, wily fox, and the couple in front of him, with their caviar and wine, had good reason to stand in fear before the Chief of UNCLE Northwest and beyond. </p>
      <p>Have his job indeed! What they had was his attention, and that could be a very dangerous position in which to find oneself.</p>
      <p>The lights beyond the shop’s exterior were still being reflected on the bottles and crystal inside.  Extravagant trappings for the truly wealthy and their nouveau riche neighbors gave the Claiborne business the appearance of class and sophistication. What it disguised was a business that harbored vile and inhumane trafficking of human cargo.  Randall Claiborne had long ago discovered that people would pay for cheap labor that asked no questions and dared not complain. </p>
      <p>Exotic women were dressed in fine clothing and housed in elegant surroundings, but never allowed to travel alone.  Young men were exploited by unloved women who justified their lust and greed by giving money to charities that claimed to make a difference in the world. </p>
      <p>While the world slept, an underworld fueled by the money of wealthy, sometimes famous people, held captives and bartered human lives for primitive cravings.  It was ageless, even children were enslaved without any hope of freedom from the nightmares they had been thrust into by the likes of Randall and Marjorie Claiborn</p>
      <p>Alexander Waverly waited for Randall Claiborne to answer the ringing phone.  The younger man’s hand was shaking, his entire world at stake as he reached for it.  How could he avoid the outcome?  On the other end was a killer, could the hit be extended to include Waverly, might he still be rescued from what was surely in store for him?</p>
      <p>The lights were suddenly a macabre display that  illuminated his life, his grief at losing Catherine… Randall thought he might throw up.  In fractions of seconds his life spilled out before him, his wife was on the verge of hysterics and he was terrified of the man he had sent to kill Solo and Kuryakin.  All of this reckoning transpired as he reached for the phone.  Picking it up, his voice was a whisper as he said…</p>
      <p><em>“Hello.”</em> </p>
      <p>Agent Collier Adams, the first man on the scene of this affair, had applied a device to the telephone that served as a speaker; everyone in the room could hear the entire conversation.  The voice on the other end spoke, no trace of nerves or suspicion was evident.</p>
      <p>“Mister Claiborne, your business has become quite a nuisance to me.  One of the men is now in a hospital, and the other is… well, let’s say he’s in my scope as we speak. I’ll call back in thirty minutes and ask you for an answer to this question: Do you still want Napoleon Solo dead?”</p>
      <p>Everyone heard the click as the phone was hung up. Claiborne’s expression went from one of simple fear to sheer terror.  There was nothing now between him and whatever this man Waverly would do to him.</p>
      <p> The UNCLE Chief sat down and opened a worn briefcase, removing a file upon which he had boldly written the name Claiborne.  Randall and Marjorie saw that, blanching in unison as they began to realize their lives were most probably hanging in the balance.  Nearly forgetting their daughter’s death, the both of them now began to engage the most horrendous of possibilities they were certain to be facing… very soon.</p>
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      <p><em>Having established, to his satisfaction, that he and Illya had definitely been observed and tracked during their wilderness experience here on this property, Napoleon pulled out the high beam flashlight given to him by Nick.  The would-be Santa had pulled it from the toolbox in the back of his truck, along with a hefty crowbar that would make quick work of anything, or anyone, in its path.</em> </p>
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        <em>Napoleon didn’t have the advantage of any communication with his boss, but suspicions of devious behavior on the part of the Claibornes were nagging at him now.  No one else would have a motive for what he and his partner had endured, something he surmised from being hijacked on the way to see the couple.</em>
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        <em>“A helicopter, for cryin’ out loud.  Who does that?”</em>
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        <em>The question was uttered aloud, and it was answered with a blow to the back of Napoleon’s head.</em>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Author: Alynwa</h2></a>
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    <p>“I told you he wasn’t dead!  He’s coming around.  He works for the Claibornes, KILL HIM!”</p><p>Napoleon was splayed out on his back on the snow – covered ground, head spinning from an unexpected blow, surrounded by several voices all raised in a combination of fear, anger and excitement; but hearing that command forced his eyes open and made him throw up his hands defensively as he used his legs to slide away from that voice.  “No!  I don’t work for the Claibornes!”  He looked around quickly to see five young women who appeared to be in their mid – teens to early twenties who, like him, were woefully underdressed for the weather.  “My name is Napoleon Solo and I work for the United Network Command for Law Enforcement.  I’m investigating the Claibornes.”  He smiled briefly to show, he hoped, that he meant no harm.  “May I ask: Who are you young ladies, what are you doing here, wherever here <em>is</em>, and what do you know about the Claibornes?”</p><p>One of the women was holding a mean – looking tree branch like a club and he assumed she was the one who had clocked him.  “I’m Sue and the Claibornes bought us from Snakeheads and are holding us captive until they sell us.”  She gestured at her companions.  “We’re the last of a group that originally numbered seventeen.  Back in China, we all wanted to come to America, but the government wouldn’t let us.  There were rumors that for a price, certain people could smuggle people wanting to leave out of China and get them to the US with the understanding that we would be able to pay them out of the money we would earn working in either restaurants or people’s homes.”</p><p>Another woman said, “My name is Lilly.  What Sue says is true.  We all met when the smugglers got us together to leave.  When we were in the middle of the ocean, we were told that the price to get us into America was now much higher than what we each had agreed to and when we said it was too high, we were told that the only way to rid ourselves of that debt was to allow ourselves to be sold into slavery so that they could get their money immediately.  When two of the group said they wouldn’t do it, the Snakeheads grabbed them and threw them over the side.  After that, we were all too afraid to say anything.”</p><p>Sue continued.  “We hoped we would at least be treated well, but Mr. Claiborne brought us here and keeps us locked up.  We barely get enough to eat and when he brings buyers here, we are made to stand while they look us over like farm animals and decide who they want.  A couple of men made it clear what they wanted girls for, so we decided to try to escape.  We were finally able to pick the locks and get out of the house tonight, but we don’t know where we are!  Please help us!”   </p><p>
  <em>Meanwhile, back at the “hospital” …</em>
</p><p>Dr. Rozhdestvo and her grandfather Nick were sipping tea in her office when they heard a noise from her patient’s room.  She put her cup down to go investigate and found the young man had sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  “Mr…Kuryakin, is it?  You need to lie back down!”  She had stretched out her arms as she approached him with the intention of gently pushing him back onto the bed, but the sudden look on his face froze her in her tracks.</p><p>“Who are you and how do you know my name?” he demanded.</p><p>Nick appeared in the doorway.  “Now, now, Son, don’t you snap at the doctor who fixed you up.  Your partner Solo explained why you’re here.  Remember getting in my truck before you passed out?”</p><p>Illya nodded as that memory returned.  “Thank you for helping me, both of you.  Where is Napoleon now?”</p><p>“I dropped him back where I found you two.”</p><p>“Then I ask you to do the same for me.  He will need my help.”</p><p>“You really need to rest,” Nastya admonished, “I must insist…”</p><p>Illya waved his hand to cut her off.  “Napoleon needed to rest, also, but he has left to do his job and I must join him.”  He turned his head to look at the Santa doppelganger.  “Please take me.”</p><p>Dr. Rozhdestvo was touched by his determination to go.  “I have something to give you.  Wait.”  She hurried back to her office and when she returned, she had her hands full.  “You’ll be wanting these.”  She placed a black wool, crocheted hat on his head that covered his ears and wrapped the matching scarf around his neck.  She then handed him two boxes of .38 caliber ammunition and lastly, a gun.  “It’s unloaded.”  When his eyes widened in surprise, she added, “One would be foolish to live so near the woods in a sparsely populated area in a house with medical grade narcotics without protection against four and two – legged predators.”</p><p>Illya grinned at that answer and said, “Thank you.  You will be reimbursed for everything you have done for my partner and me.  UNCLE will see to it.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it.  <em>M</em><em>oy ded skazal mne, chto ty russkiy. My, russkiye, dolzhny derzhat'sya vmeste.</em>  (My grandfather told me you’re Russian.  We Russians have to stick together.)  Good luck to you.”</p><p>“Spacibo.” </p><p><em>At the same time in New York City…</em> </p><p>Exactly thirty minutes after the last call, the phone began to ring again.  Randall swallowed the last of his wine and picked up the phone.  “Hello?”</p><p>“I need two answers now, Claiborne,” Shiv’s voice said across the speaker.  "Five of your assets escaped and are talking to Solo now so do you want him dead and if yes, do you want the girls dead, too?  If <em>that</em> answer is yes, I will require another ten grand.”</p><p>Claiborne’s mind was racing.  He knew that the women must have told Solo that they were enslaved and being held prisoner.  Any one of them could put him and his wife away for years, but all five would put them in jail for life.  He was ruined; it was over.  All he could do was save his beloved Marjorie.</p><p>“Claiborne?”</p><p>“Kill them!  Kill them all!” he yelled before Adams could disconnect the call. </p><p>He ran past his wife as Waverly and Adams pulled their weapons and broke out the window overlooking the alley below their home.  “Stay back or I’ll jump!”</p><p>Marjorie was beside herself.  “Randy!  Randy, what are you <em>doing?”</em></p><p>“I’m sorry, My Love.  Waverly, listen to me.  Marjorie had nothing to do with anything.  It was me, all of it!  I’ve been a human trafficker for years and she knew nothing about it, do you hear?  <em>Nothing!”</em>  He looked at Marjorie.  “I’m so, so sorry, Marjorie.  I love you so much, but I can’t do it, I can’t drag you down with me.  Waverly, with me gone, Marjorie will be contacted by the killer for payment.  Make sure your agents are there to apprehend him.”  Before anyone could do anything, Randy jumped out the third-floor window, falling like a ragdoll and landing with a sickening crunch on the ice – covered cement.</p><p>Marjorie screamed and fainted dead away.   </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Author: LeetheT</h2></a>
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    <p>Waverly and Collier looked over the windowsill at the sprawled ragdoll figure of Claiborne, sprinkled with glass that glittered like diamonds. A mildly interested crowd had already begun to cluster about the spectacle.</p><p><br/>“Hm.” Waverly rubbed his chin. “Dashed inconvenient. Still. It eliminates the question of his guilt or innocence.” He turned on Marjorie Claiborne, shrinking into herself, all tears and quivers that might or might not be faked. “Madame, <em>your </em>guilt or innocence is irrelevant also – for the moment. Where are our agents and where is your assassin, and how do we stop him?”</p><p><br/>She gestured widely – wildly – and cried, “I don’t know! The assassin … his name is Shiv. I don’t know anything about him or where he is.”</p><p><br/>Collier advanced on her. “I’ll get it out of her, sir.”</p><p><br/>Impatient, Waverly said, “Please do, and with some speed, Mr. Collier. Several lives may hang in the balance. Get a team in here to go over this place. I’m going back to headquarters.”</p><p><br/>“Yes sir.”</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>~*~</p>
</div><p><br/>Napoleon gently coaxed the ladies into a smaller cluster – at least it would conserve heat and he wouldn’t have to shout.  “We need to get to town,” he said. “It’s only about …” He did the rough math in his head and sighed. These girls wore indoor clothing and shoes, and were probably already hungry, tired, and cold.<br/>“About 5 miles that way,” he lied – it was more like 10, but no point in fomenting despair – and pointed down the mountain. He hated giving up the chase – the hitman, any assistants he had, and the men who’d been holding these girls were all up there somewhere, and the cabin they said they’d been kept in was probably close to the control center – but the priority was getting these girls to safety and reporting in. They wouldn’t last, dressed as they were, and the sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours. At least it wasn’t snowing, and there was a bright moon to light their way.  <em>And to provide perfect targeting conditions for anyone with a rifle.  </em>“Come on,” he urged, waving with his hands as if trying to herd a clutch of ducklings. “Keep moving. We have to get to safety and you need to keep warm. Try to link arms if you can. Keep close and keep moving. It’s not far.” He grimaced mentally at the lie and waved the crowbar in the general direction of the road, which lay a couple of miles down the narrow path he’d so recently ascended.</p><p><br/>They marched.</p><p><br/>It wasn't long before the faint crunch of tires on snow came to his ears. Quickly he shooed the girls into the treeline and told them to get down.</p><p><br/>A van was struggling its way down the road. Big, expensive, no windows in the back – and coming down, not up from town. All that told Napoleon it would be best to stay hidden. Barring Nick, everyone he’d met on this mountain had tried their best to kill him.  Before he could communicate that, the girls erupted in a series of cries and sobs and yells for help, scampering around him and running through the snow toward the road.</p><p><br/>The van skidded to a stop.</p><p><br/>Quickly, Napoleon weighed the benefit of leaving them to their fate and simply getting to town himself. But he realized it would be better if he could find out where they were being held – they weren’t the only girls in captivity on this ruthless mountain.<br/>Sighing, he hid the crowbar behind his back and followed the girls to the van.</p><p><br/>Leaving the van running, a man hopped out, a semiautomatic in hand but not actually pointed at anyone, which Napoleon took as a propitious sign.  “<em>There </em>you are,” the man said.</p><p><br/>“Here we are,” Napoleon agreed. “Who are you?”</p><p><br/>“Name’s Shiv. Where’s your partner?”</p><p><br/>Napoleon pretended to look around him. “As is so often the case, I’m not really sure.”</p><p><br/>Shiv shook his head and leaned in to the van to access a mobile phone. He requested access to “Claiborne” from whoever he got connected to, and waited. And waited.  And waited. Then cursed, once.</p><p><br/>“Sounds like your boss is <em>hors de combat</em>,” Napoleon said as Shiv hung up.</p><p><br/>Calmly, Shiv said, “Sounds like.”</p><p><br/>“So you might as well cut your losses and let us go.”  To his astonishment, the hitman seemed to consider this. Solo filed that information in his brain.</p><p><br/>Finally, though, the man said, “I got nothin’ against you, Solo, or these girls.” He indicated them with his gun, casually, and they shrank into themselves en masse.  “But I got no time to baby-sit, and I don’t want no witnesses.” Shiv shrugged, raised his .45.</p><p><br/>“Stop!” Napoleon said, hands out – he quickly dropped the crowbar, realizing it presented a less-than-conciliatory appearance. “Let’s talk this over.”  Again, Shiv paused – that pause reassuring Napoleon his assessment was correct. He plunged on.  “Look, you’ve gotten all you’re going to get from the Claibornes. But they aren’t the only bidders here.”</p><p><br/>Like two tiny earthquakes, the heavy brows in that rocklike face shifted upward as Shiv examined Napoleon’s face and the option he was presenting.  “Go on.”</p><p><br/>“It’s simple. Take us to the nearest town and leave us. I’ll give you 24 hours to disappear, and –” He quickly calculated – UNCLE wouldn’t pay off an independent contractor like Shiv, and though he was comfortable, he wasn’t sure how much money he could lay his hands on immediately. “— and $10,000 cash to help fund that disappearance, along with my promise of no retribution from my organization.” That line item, in light of the fact that this deal would save these girls’ lives (not to mention Solo’s own) – he thought he could defend to Waverly.</p><p><br/>“You got that much on you?” Shiv challenged.</p><p><br/>The catch, Napoleon thought, and cursed silently. “No. I can get it to you as soon as I get back to New York, though – in whatever form and to whatever place you prefer. No double-cross. This is a deal for saving the lives of these girls.”</p><p><br/>“And yours,” Shiv said. “Maybe I’ll keep one of them for collateral…” He eyed the girls again, and at least one of them started to cry.</p><p><br/>“How about …” Napoleon fished in his pockets and about his person. <em>No communicator, no badge, not the exploding cufflinks, no, no … damn.  </em>He handed over about $200 in cash and his (<em>damn!</em>) Rolex. “That’s a bit more than 10 percent down. Good enough?”</p><p><br/>Shiv looked at the down payment, then at Solo. He shrugged. “Hell, I got nothin’ personal against you or these girls.” Solo handed over the money and watch. Shiv shoved them into his wallet, keeping the gun steady on Napoleon. “If I don’t get the balance within that 24 hour window you mentioned, I will find you and I will take you down.”</p><p><br/>Napoleon scout-swore, confident the man would keep his word. “On my honor.”</p><p><br/>Shiv squinted at him, believing him, Napoleon thought, about as much as Napoleon himself meant it – maybe 50%.</p><p><br/>Then Shiv shrugged. “OK. Load ‘em in the back and I’ll run you in to town. No skin off my nose.”</p><p><br/>The girls were already eagerly entering the relative warmth of the van, probably heedless of the identity of the various items of mayhem and destruction they were shoving aside to make room on the floor. Napoleon closed the van doors behind them and got up front, wanting to do nothing to make the man think he would cause any trouble. The heavy steel mesh between the front and back of the van was another incentive – he didn’t want to be trapped.</p><p><br/>Shiv started off, driving surprisingly carefully for a hitman. Clearly he had some familiarity with snow. Napoleon sought for some innocuous topic of conversation.<br/>“So the Claibornes hired you to kill us.” OK, not innocuous, but it was something they had in common, at least.</p><p><br/>Shiv said nothing.</p><p><br/>“Ah, I’ll take that as a yes.”</p><p><br/>Shiv didn’t shift his gaze from the road. “I would.”</p><p><br/>The grey-white mist of early morning gradually revealed a set of headlights moving toward them. The road being narrow as well as slippery, Napoleon wasn’t surprised that Shiv slowed and moved to the outside edge. To everyone’s surprise, the car coming toward them slowed, fishtailed, and blocked their path. Someone got out and Napoleon immediately recognized his shape and movements. <em>And damn again.  </em>Illya, bundled in a too-big (presumably borrowed) coat, stumped toward him, his breath pluming in the frosty air. It was snowing again, lightly, but the wind was low. In dramatically different circumstances it would be pleasant.</p><p><br/>“What are you doing out of the hospital?” Napoleon growled, glancing behind him. Shiv was out of the van, standing still by the driver’s side door, engine still running.</p><p><br/>“I came to help.” Illya looked at the van. “I guess I’m redundant.”</p><p><br/>“Not necessarily,” Napoleon said. “That’s one of the guys who was trying to kill us.” He gave his head a backward nod, toward Shiv, and Illya tensed.</p><p><br/>“Napoleon!” The remonstrance was mild. “I wish I could have gotten a gun.”</p><p><br/>“Not sure it would help – he’s got five young girls in the back of that van. The last thing we want is a shootout. Anyway, he’s driving us back into town.”</p><p><br/>“He’s what?”</p><p><br/>Napoleon shrugged. “We made a deal. He lost contact with the Claibornes – he has a phone in the van – so I … sort of outbid them.”</p><p><br/>Illya shook his head. “Leave it to you.” He started to get back in the car. “I’ll follow—”</p><p><br/>“No, you won’t.”</p><p><br/>Shiv’s voice made both agents turn. He stood with a shotgun pointed very emphatically at them.  “Both of you. In the back. Now.”  Clearly he was accustomed to being obeyed.</p><p><br/>“No gun.” Napoleon said sourly.</p><p><br/>“I couldn’t find one,” Illya groused.</p><p><br/>Napoleon sighed. “After you, then.”</p><p><br/>Shiv herded them to the back and opened the door. Illya climbed in, with some effort, telling Napoleon he was in no shape to be out here.</p><p><br/>Napoleon paused, looked at Shiv. “I thought we had a deal.”</p><p><br/>Shiv smiled. “I got a better offer.”</p><p><br/>Surprised, Napoleon blurted, “<em>When</em>?”</p><p><br/>This time Shiv’s smile showed all his teeth. It was like staring into the face of a shark.</p><p><br/>“Ten years ago when I joined THRUSH. Now get in the van.”</p><p><br/>Napoleon got in the van.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Author: pfrye23</h2></a>
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    <p>Shiv slammed the door to the van shut. Napoleon sat down next to Illya, the five girls huddled together towards the front of the compartment. "How are you?" he asked.<br/><br/>Illya grimaced as the van hit a bump in the road. "I'm not at my finest, but I'm not at my worst either." He unbuttoned his borrowed coat and showed Napoleon the gun that Dr. Rozhdestvo had given him. "I think you might be in better shape to use this." He whispered.<br/><br/>Napoleon took the gun and slid it into his waistband, covering it with his suit coat. "Your ability to mend is as always awe inspiring, Partner."<br/><br/>"I aim to please."<br/><br/>About half an hour later the van stopped. Shiv opened the rear and motioned the captives out with his shotgun. They were parked near a warehouse surrounded with a chain link fence. The compound was somewhere in the woods. The girls started to cry as they saw where they were. "You were going to let us go!"<br/><br/>"Sorry, ladies. I'm afraid there has been a change in plans and ownership." He motioned the ragged wet and cold group into the warehouse. Inside several of Shiv's men herded the crying girls into a cage, one of many that lined one side of the building. Several of the other cages were occupited with young girls, young men and even children.<br/><br/>Shiv prodded Napoleon and Illya into an empty cage near the door. "Behave yourselves and maybe you'll get out of this alive...maybe." He laughed.<br/><br/>"Oh, we intend to." Napoleon answered.<br/><br/>Shiv smiled, "This is working out well. The Claiborne couple are out of the picture sooner than I thought. Neither one of them are answering my calls. Their little money making racket will now be mine, thanks to Catherine Claiborne letting me know all about it."<br/><br/>"Catherine Claiborne?" Illya asked.<br/><br/>"Yea, Cathy and I had planned to take it over from Mommy and Daddy Dearest. She felt that her parents were not maximizing the profits that could be made. She wanted the food company and the trafficking sideline too. She was ambitious, a good recruit to THRUSH."<br/><br/>Napoleon shook his head in confusion, "But THRUSH killed her!"<br/><br/>"I know," Shiv looked sad. "A case of miscommunication." He looked at Illya, "Thanks for killing Major Durham. If you hadn't, I would have."<br/><br/>Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. The pain that they both had felt over losing an innocent was misplaced. The revenge that Marjorie and Randall Claiborne longed for was just as misplaced. Their sweet daughter was just as evil, twisted and corrupt as they were.<br/><br/>*****************<br/><br/>Agent Collier Adams reported to Mr. Waverly's office. "Sir, Marjorie Claiborne gave us the location of a house and warehouse complex in upstate New York. That's where they keep all the people that they auction for their trafficking business. We suspect that is where Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin are."<br/><br/>"Good job Mr. Adams. I want you to coordinate with Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer to mount an attack. Bring our people home and free the unfortunates that the Claiborne's have imprisoned.<br/><br/><br/>"Yes sir!"<br/><br/>*************************<br/><br/>The warehouse was dark and quiet. Shiv and his team of THRUSH had retired leaving only one guard on duty. The guard seemed to be asleep. Napoleon nudged his sleeping partner awake and motioned to the cage door. Napoleon handed Illya a hairpin. "Courtesy of one of the young ladies" he whispered.<br/><br/>Illya slowly worked his way to the door, reaching through he quietly went to work on the lock. Fortunately it was fairly simple and with a soft click it opened. Napoleon slid out of the cage, Illya's gun in hand and crept towards the sleeping guard.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Author: selyndae</h2></a>
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      <p>Illya leaned back against the wall, on alert, as his partner silently and efficiently dispatched the guard. Neither agent felt any real guilt at the deed; the only innocents in this affair were the trafficking victims.</p>
      <p>He waited, listening intently for a moment. Nothing. Satisfied, he waved Illya over to help move the guard’s body behind the desk. That accomplished, Napoleon strode over to the door, opening it a crack to check on their situation. <em>So far so good.</em></p>
      <p>“Looks like they really did settle down for the night.”</p>
      <p>“Hey! What about us?” A cacophony of fearful voices flooded over from the various cages,</p>
      <p>Instantly, Napoleon whirled around making shushing motions. “Not so loud!” he hissed. Inside the cages, most of the victims were watching warily. Some of the children were crying, which tore at him, but the girls who’d attacked them earlier, glared at the agent with hostile suspicion. “Look,” He offered the caged victims a reassuring smile. “We’ll get you out soon, I promise, Just as soon as we make sure it’s safe.”</p>
      <p>Illya had been putting his time to good use patting down the guard’s body and checking for weapons. When he calmly removing the man’s watch, his partner raised his eyebrows, but started over to the new-looking file cabinet still wrapped in plastic. Finally finished with the body, Illya walked around the desk to rifle through the drawers.</p>
      <p>A quick search of the disappointingly empty cabinet and Napoleon strode back to the door to take another listen. He glanced over at his partner, who was down to the bottom drawer. “Anything?”</p>
      <p>“Nothing here.” Illya slammed the drawer shut.</p>
      <p>“I suppose it <em>would</em> be a bit much to expect Thrush to leave damaging proofs out in the open. Stuff like names and dates, the buyers—” he grimaced, “—where and when the um, delivery is to take place.”</p>
      <p>“Isn’t it just…” The Russian agent froze, eyes narrowed before slowly pulling himself back up. With a frown, he looked around the nearly empty room. “There’s no phone.”</p>
      <p>“What?” Napoleon took another look around himself. “That’s odd.” He gestured to the guard’s body. “You didn’t find a communicator?”</p>
      <p>A decisive shake of the head. “Nothing. Except the watch. And the rifle.”</p>
      <p>Definitely strange. His senses began to twitch, causing him to look sharply at the door again. <em>Nothing… but something is very wrong. So…what…?</em></p>
      <p>Just then, a rumbling was heard and the floor began to vibrate intensely!</p>
      <p>
        <b>
          <em>BOOM!</em>
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      <p>A huge wall slammed into place, cutting off the cages from the rest of the room!</p>
      <p>Shocked, the agents ran over to the wall, pounding. Solid! And soundproof—they could no longer hear the women and children crying inside!</p>
      <p>There was no way they could get through it, at least not with what they had on them. Now, more than ever, they needed to escape and contact U.N.C.L.E. immediately!</p>
      <p>In desperation, Napoleon began to tap lightly on the walls looking for a hidden compartment, false panel, or even a lever, just in case.</p>
      <p>Illya pulled out desk drawers completely, hoping to find a hidden switch. “Nothing here.” He sounded tired.</p>
      <p>Napoleon sighed, having given up the walls as a lost cause; it had been a long shot at best.</p>
      <p>Illya suddenly looked over at the door. “Someone’s coming!” he hissed.</p>
      <p>They immediately took up positions on both sides of the door.</p>
      <p>The doorknob slowly began to turn. It stopped. Then, the door opened a few inches and a bright light immediately flooded the room, temporarily blinding the agents—they hadn’t expected a flood light!</p>
      <p>“We have you covered! No one move!”</p>
      <p>Illya’s expression turned stubborn as he slumped against the wall, frustrated.</p>
      <p>Napoleon searched his memory. <em>Something about that voice…</em></p>
      <p>“Collier?”</p>
      <p>The door opened wider to reveal Agent Adams flanked by two others. The light switched off and Adams grinned. “Glad to see you’re here. We were beginning to wonder.” He opened his communicator. “Open Channel L. We have them.”</p>
      <p>
        <em>“Great timing. We’re almost finished here.”</em>
      </p>
      <p>“Excellent, Miss Dancer. We’ll meet you at the rendezvous point in 5 minutes.”</p>
      <p>Adams turned to the door to lead the small group out.</p>
      <p>“Wait! We have to get the others first.”</p>
      <p>Adams stopped. “The place is empty. You’re the only ones we found.”</p>
      <p>Illya limped back to the thick wall that had so recently appeared. “There are cages on the other side of this wall with young people—children, even. We have to get them out of there!”</p>
      <p>Adams shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Illya, but they must have been taken somewhere else. All we found were empty cages.”</p>
      <p>Napoleon closed his eyes in despair. “So, that’s it.”</p>
      <p>Illya didn’t trust himself to speak.</p>
      <p>The small group despondently left the room, Adams deliberately setting a slower pace to accommodate the senior agents’ unhealed injuries. Once outside, they were quickly led through the bitter cold and bundled into a large U.N.C.L.E. van where hot coffee was immediately offered.</p>
      <p>“What happened to them?” Illya looked haunted.</p>
      <p>Adams looked grim. “There was no one to be found. Not a sign.” He wiped his mouth. “When everyone checks in, we’ll look again, but…it doesn’t look good.”</p>
      <p>Napoleon felt somewhat revived from the hot coffee. “The wall only came down, what, ten, fifteen minutes before you found us? Even with an escape route, it would take longer than that to get everyone out and away from here.”</p>
      <p>“They may not have taken the...the ‘merchandise,’ but rather decided to— to cut their losses and leave.” Illya’s voice was flat.</p>
      <p>“But, that would mean…”</p>
      <p>“Exactly. Thrush doesn’t appreciate witnesses.”</p>
      <p>The van door opened admitting Mark Slate and April Dancer, dressed in matching black sweaters and pants. April slipped over to sit next to Illya and studied the top agents. She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear and smiled. “Glad to see the two of you in one piece, boys.”</p>
      <p>Mark’s easy grin matched his partners, but faded as he took at closer look at the Chief Enforcement agent. “What’s wrong, mate?”</p>
      <p>“They’re gone. Thrush, <em>Shiv</em>, got away with their trafficking.” At Mark and April’s twin looks of horror, he gave a quick rundown of everything, bringing them up to date.</p>
      <p>Mark glanced through the window at Adams who had stepped outside to update Waverly via communicator. “Collier’s in charge of this. I’ll see what he has in mind.” At Napoleon’s nod, he opened the door and went back outside.</p>
      <p>As soon as the door was closed, Napoleon leaned toward April. “I don’t think we have a lot of time, here. Shiv will be out of the country by the time a full-scale team is dispatched.”</p>
      <p>April nodded slowly. “You may be right. Collier is a really good agent, but, um…he’s very regulation-driven. He won’t make a move without Waverly’s explicit okay.”</p>
      <p>The van door opened and Mark slipped back inside, a swirl of snow in his wake. “He’s in touch with Mr. Waverly. A special team will be here as soon as possible, but since there’s a blizzard raging, it’ll be close to an hour.” He blew on his hands. “It’s really coming down now. I guess the only good thing is, it should delay Thrush, too.”</p>
      <p>Illya started to pull himself up, then sat back down with a groan.</p>
      <p>“Illya?” Napoleon was very concerned. His partner had almost died, and now, after all this…</p>
      <p>“I am fine.” Seeing his partner’s expression, he added quickly, “It’s not that. It’s my memory. <em>How</em> could I have forgotten?”</p>
      <p>“Forgotten what?”</p>
      <p>“This is one of the latest fleet of surveillance vans.”</p>
      <p>“Okay…?”</p>
      <p>“It’s equipped with the new prototype of Radio-radar.”</p>
      <p>“Radio-radar? What—”</p>
      <p>“It’s a new application that uses ultralow radio waves as a kind of radar. With it, we can search through solids, like ground penetrating radar, for openings like caves, or we can actually see through walls. We then interpret the resulting images as people or objects. Because it’s in real time, we can see actual movement as it happens. It’s still in extensive testing, but the preliminary results are phenomenal. An added benefit is not harming the operator <em>or</em> anyone being scanned.”</p>
      <p>“Wow.” Napoleon’s puzzled expression cleared. “What do we need to do?”</p>
      <p>“We’ll need to get closer for starters. The equipment is mostly built into the van.” April grinned at Napoleon’s start of surprise.</p>
      <p>“Except for the scanning transmitter. That has to be set up near the targeted area.” Mark started to move up front. “Good thing it’s a warehouse.”</p>
      <p>“How come everyone seems to know about this equipment except me?” muttered Napoleon.</p>
      <p>April patted his arm consolingly. “It’s still a prototype. It’ll probably be <em>years</em> before it’s standard equipment.”</p>
      <p>Illya looked up, his expression mischievous. “I shouldn’t worry about it, Napoleon. You keep track of so many... <em>other</em> things.”</p>
      <p>The van was quickly driven into the warehouse, Napoleon pointing out the location of the false wall in the room they so recently vacated. Nodding, the driver backed the van into place, shifted into park, and gave Illya the keys,</p>
      <p>“I’ll help in back.”</p>
      <p>Illya nodded, now wholly focused on setting up the equipment at his end while the others climbed out to locate the scanning transmitter to the desk. Mark started attaching the large cable to the transmitter. Once attached, he would pay out the cable to screw into its external port above the rear bumper of the van.</p>
      <p>A sharp rap on the passenger side door startled Illya, before it opened abruptly. “<b><em>What</em></b><em> is going on here?</em>” demanded Adams.</p>
      <p>Illya, in the process of warming up the unit, looked sheepishly at the agent in charge. “I just remembered about the Radio-radar being in the van. If the trafficking victims are still behind that wall, this should show it!” He turned back to the lighted display.</p>
      <p>Adams climbed into the van to sit next to Illya. He pulled the door shut before moving closer. “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” he murmured, reaching over to activate the van’s automatic locks and electric charge.</p>
      <p>“What are you…?” Illya’s question trailed off as he looked at Adams—the Special with silencer aimed inches away from his heart. “What’s going on here, Collier?”</p>
      <p>“I’m sorry, Illya, but I really can’t allow you to interfere with this.”</p>
      <p>Illya leaned back and sighed. “Thrush?”</p>
      <p>“Unimportant. Instead, I suggest you think of a way to get us out of here quickly, and preferably quietly.” His lips twitched in amusement at Illya’s expression of disbelief. “It’s that or I <em>flambé</em> your partner with the flamethrower. Up to you.” He gestured with his weapon. “Drive.”</p>
      <p>Illya, seeing the turncoat agent’s free hand poised near the flamethrower controls, slouched back momentarily defeated. Then, with a shrug, glanced in the side mirrors to see that everyone was clear before flooring it!</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Author: Mrua7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Illya floored the van inside the warehouse with a screech of the tires; gaining traction was fine, but as soon as the vehicle exited it was met with an ever deepening snowfall.</p><p>The van swerved and Kuryakin shouted in Russian for the others to hold on, knowing that both Napoleon and April would understand him.</p><p>
  <em>“Derzhis' za chto-nibud'!”</em>
</p><p>Mark caught on quickly and followed suit. Collier Adams however, did not.</p><p>Illya pinned the wheel and the van went over. Hitting something hard, it landed on its side in a huge snow dri</p><p>
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</p><p>The UNCLE agents sprang into action to the sound of a blaring horn as there was a struggle in the darkness. The only light was from the muzzle flash as Adam’s gun went off.</p><p>The weapon was finally wrenched from his hand as he was knocked out with a mighty double-handed blow from Slate.</p><p>“Illya!” Napoleon barked, thinking his partner had been shot again.  Kuryakin was leaning motionless against the driver’s side door.</p><p>The horn ceased blaring as he pulled his partner up, checking his pulse.</p><p>“I am fine Napoleon,”Illya said; he had a sizable lump from his forehead hitting the steering wheel, and winced as he reached up to touch it.</p><p>“I thought Adams had followed through with his threat.” Solo breathed a sigh of relief, first Illya being stabbed, then shot; he doubted his partner, as strong as he was, could withstand another serious injury.</p><p>The unconscious Collier Adams was bound with wires from the equipment in the rear of the van while Mark and Napoleon pulled the sliding door on the side of the van open and climbed out, followed by April and Illya, but not before retrieving their communicators and weapons.</p><p>Apparently there had been a sizable downed tree hidden beneath the snow drift and that left the front end of the vehicle badly damaged.  There was no way it could be uprighted.</p><p>“You know Illya, Mister Waverly isn’t going to be happy that you wrecked another vehicle,”April chided,”especially since this one was a prototype.”</p><p>Kuryakin merely pursed his lips, but said nothing. It was too cold to stand there in the heavy snowfall to discuss the point, or its consequences.</p><p>The men accompanying Adams came running through from the warehouse, but they were quickly dispatched with sleep darts. As the four agents retreated inside from the storm, the unconscious men were dragged there as well.</p><p>“I think it’s safe to assume that Adams did not call for backup,” Napoleon said as his partner began reexamining the wall that separated them from Lilly, Sue and the other prisoners.</p><p>“That is unless it is back up from Thrush,” Illya said.</p><p>“You’re always looking on the bright side of life aren’t you tovarisch?”</p><p>Kuryakin was no longer interested in conversation; putting his ear to the wall; he could just barely make out voices from the other side.</p><p>“I can hear cries, women and children. Adams lied; they are still here.”</p><p>Napoleon, in the meantime, had opened a communicator, contacting Mister Waverly.</p><p>“Mister Solo, where the devil have you and Mister Kuryakin been? You were supposed to go to the Claiborne house but I found it necessary to send Dancer and Slate to find you.” The Old Man didn’t sound very happy.</p><p>“Firstly sir, are you all right?”</p><p>“Ahem, why of course, despite the fact that I’ve been abandoned along with Mrs. Claiborne by Collier Adams and his team at the Claiborne house. They took off without so much as a by your leave, as it were.”</p><p>“Sir, Adams and his people were apparently involved with Thrush and had their own plans, but they’ve since been subdued.</p><p>“Adams Thrush? We’re going to have to double down on our vetting process. Further details Mister Solo?”</p><p>“Long story sir, but Mister Kuryakin and I were kidnapped, and were being hunted down by a man named Shiv.”</p><p>“I am aware of him Mister Solo...”</p><p>Napoleon didn’t question how the Old Man knew, “We were finally taken prisoner by him and caged at a nearby warehouse along with others waiting to be sold as part of a human trafficking ring. He was initially working for the Claibornes who wanted us killed but he had a change of mind. We’ve since found out the Claiborne’s daughter Catherine was working for Thrush and involved in that same human trafficking ring. Shiv discovered this and decided to continue with her plan to sell us to the highest bidder along with other prisoners, many of whom are children.”</p><p>“I am, however,”Waverly said,” aware of the human trafficking as Randy Claiborne confessed to having been involved for years. He did so before killing himself by jumping out a third floor window. We saw on a monitor screen that he was observing you and Mister Kuryakin being hunted down.”</p><p>There was a very pregnant pause that was followed by a sigh, before the Old Man continued.</p><p>“This has become far more complicated than I first imagined, ”Waverly mumbled. “I take it you are safe for the moment…”</p><p>“Yes but not the other prisoners. We’ll need a team here asap with sledge hammers, crowbars and a lot of muscle to free them.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t explosives be more expeditious?”</p><p>“Negative sir; too risky.”</p><p>“Help might take some time Mister Solo, given the weather conditions.”</p><p>“I understand sir. Shiv is heading for the airport to catch an international flight so we need to notify our agents as well as the local authorities to be on the lookout for him. I’m sure the storm is slowing him as well so our agents and the police may be able to get ahead of him and set a trap at Kennedy Airport.”</p><p>“I will take care of those arrangements immediately.”</p><p>“Excuse me sir, ”Illya interrupted,” Perhaps we could call on one Nick Rozhdestvo with his snowplow to extricate us while Miss Dancer and Mister Slate remain here at the warehouse for assistance in freeing the prisoners. You may be able to find him at the local clinic where his granddaughter is a physician.”</p><p>“I’m not even going to ask how you know this gentleman, but I will endeavor to locate him. Anything else?”</p><p>“Perhaps he could bring blankets, hot coco, some bandages as well as a surgical needle and thread with him. He will have access to all this at the clinic.”</p><p>“Consider it done Mister Kuryakin. Waverly out.”</p><p>The Old Man didn’t want to know the reason for the medical supplies. When it came to his Russian operative, sometimes it was better just not to ask. No doubt he or perhaps his partner had been injured but as usual neither man would admit it unless it was serious. Still, Kuryakin didn’t request the doctor’s assistance, so that was a good sign.</p><p>April and Mark had winter coats but Napoleon and Illya did not. Solo kept pacing, clapping his hands on his arms to generate some heat. Dancer finally had the brilliant idea to relieve Adam’s men of their warm jackets.</p><p>“Thanks April,” Napoleon smiled as he slipped into one of the coats.</p><p>Kuryakin was looking paler than usual as Solo helped him put on the other coat. Of course it was too big, but that didn’t matter as it would keep the injured Russian more comfortable. It was then Napoleon spotted blood on Illya’s shirt.</p><p>“That’s why you asked for the bandages.”</p><p>“Yes, in the crash I may have popped a few stitches, but I am fine.”</p><p>“You always say that when you’re about to keel over.”</p><p>“I am not going to keel over, now please let it be Napoleon,” Illya hissed. “Stop being a mother hen.”</p><p>Fifteen minutes later a pair of headlights flashed through the snowfall and the muffled roar of an engine was heard.  Nick had arrived and the requested supplies with him.</p><p>Still dressed in red and black; he exited the truck with a boisterous laugh.</p><p>“Ho-ho boys! Here I am coming to your rescue again. We’ve got to stop making a habit of meeting like this!”</p><p>Introductions were made while the blankets and coco were distributed, though Dancer and Slate seemed a bit distracted by Nick’s appearance.</p><p>“Don’t you think it’s rather strange that he looks like Santa Claus,” April whispered to Mark. “And his name’s Nick Rozhdestvo. His last name  means ‘Christmas’ in Russian...and Nick, as in Old Saint Nick? Makes you think, doesn’t it?”</p><p><br/>"Luv, in this business nothing ever seems strange to me,” he sipped some of the hot chocolate from a mug handed to him by their personal 'jolly old elf'l It was probably the best coco Slate ever had.  It suddenly caught Slate’s attention that his first name was painted on the mug.  Now things had definitely become strange...<br/><br/></p><p>Seeing the blood on Kuryakin's shirt; Nick motioned for Napoleon and Illya to climb into the truck with him as there he had the requested medical supplies. Better to take care of that business in the warmth of the cab with the heater on. Kuryakin quickly lifted his shirt, removing a bloody bandage.</p><p>“Let me help you with that son,” Nick offered.</p><p>“No...thank you. I can handle it myself. Not uttering a sound, Illya threaded the needle and stitched the wound himself after cleaning it. Nick suspected more than the requested medical supplies would be needed and had brought hydrogen peroxide as well.</p><p>As Kuryakin applied it to the wound with a gauze pad, watching for a moment as the peroxide foamed pink.</p><p>Napoleon cringed just a little as he watched his partner jab the curved needle into his flesh, resewing the wound where the stitches had come open.</p><p>Once the procedure was finished, he did help Illya rebandage the wound as the bit of surgery had sapped some of the Russian’s energy reserve.</p><p>“Here, “ Nick held out a bottle of pills.” Just antibiotics; my granddaughter said you should start taking them. No arguments.”</p><p>“I would never argue with your Snow Maiden,” Kuryakin half smiled as he accepted them an swallowed a pill along with a cup of hot coco that seemed to appear in Nick's hand from seemingly nowhere.  Illya put it off to his having lost more blood than he first thought.</p><p>Nick winked upon hearing that name applied to his granddaughter.</p><p> </p><p>“Say, do you think you could get us to New York City?” Napoleon asked.</p><p>“I think I can try.” He flashed a toothy grin from beneath that big white beard and moustache of his. “What’s one more Christmas wish to grant.”</p><p>“Christmas?” Napoleon asked. “It’s Christmas?”</p><p>“Ho-ho, yes it is son. Then again with all that’s been happening with you two, I’m not surprised you’ve lost track of a little thing like the date.”</p><p>The agents hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a little stuffed toy reindeer standing atop the dashboard.  Nick gave it a squeeze and the nose lit up...red of course.</p><p>“Rudolph with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my... snow plow tonight?” Nick laughed.  He turned on the radio; Bing Crosby was crooning away.</p><p>“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know.Where the treetops glisten, and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow…”</p><p>“I think his dreams come true and then some,” Napoleon muttered.</p><p>Illya said nothing as he had laid his head back and closed his eyes, still there was just the hint of a smile on his lips.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Once Kuryakin woke up Napoleon filled his partner in on his latest theory.</p><p>“Now that we know Catherine was in cahoots with Thrush and not an innocent since she was involved in the selling of innocent human beings; I suspect there might be some useful information at the Claiborne’s shop in Times Square.”</p><p>“What sort of information?”</p><p>“Perhaps details in reference to the trafficking ring. It doesn’t make sense that Durham, a Thrush agent, kidnapped another Thrush operative, unless he caught onto Catherine’s little side business with her father. Maybe he wanted a piece of the action? I’m convinced there’s secret intel to be had at the shop.”</p><p>“Interesting thoughts my friend.”</p><p>“Human trafficking?” Nick couldn’t help but overhear the UNCLE agent’s discussion.</p><p>“Yes sir,” Napoleon said,” and we’re going to do something about it.”</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Author: ssclassof56</h2></a>
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      <p>A two-tone alarm woke Napoleon from his doze. The truck’s cab was warm and dark, and his tired fingers fumbled with the communicator.</p>
      <p>“That’s one loud gadget you’ve got there,” Nick said as he peered out the windshield at the snowy highway. “Almost sent me clean off the road.”</p>
      <p>“You get used to it,” Napoleon replied, nudging his snoring partner. “Solo here.”</p>
      <p>“It’s Mark. I’ve good news and bad news, mate.”</p>
      <p>Napoleon rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Of course, you do.”</p>
      <p>“We breached the concrete wall. The captives are free and in good condition, considering all they’ve been through.”</p>
      <p>Illya released a drowsy but gratified exhalation. “And the bad news?” he mumbled.</p>
      <p>“Adams escaped.”</p>
      <p>“What about his men?” Napoleon asked sharply.</p>
      <p>“Still here. April’s interrogating them, poor blighters. Wait, she’s heading this way.”</p>
      <p>After a few seconds, April’s voice came on the channel. “Napoleon, those men aren’t working for Thrush.”</p>
      <p>“What do you mean? They were going to attack us.”</p>
      <p>“Adams fed them some line about you and Illya being compromised. With the death of Cathy Claiborne and your disappearance, they were already inclined to believe it. Seeing the van tear off with Illya at the wheel clinched it for them.”</p>
      <p>“A convenient tale,” Illya said.</p>
      <p>“I gave one of them a truth serum tablet. His story held.”</p>
      <p>Napoleon ran his hand over his face. “Even if they’re innocent, Adams isn’t.”</p>
      <p>“True. Headquarters knows that they’ve now got two Thrushies to track down.”</p>
      <p>“Perhaps they will kill two birds with one stone,” Illya said.</p>
      <p>“That’s the spirit, darling. Ta-ta.” April closed the channel.</p>
      <p>“The lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life,” Nick recited into the ensuing silence.</p>
      <p>“What’d you say?” Napoleon asked, the hand with his communicator pausing above his pocket.</p>
      <p>“What was that?” Illya asked at the same moment.</p>
      <p>“I was just thinking, what makes a man like this Adams do what he did?”</p>
      <p>“I had the same thought,” Napoleon said.</p>
      <p>“So had I,” Illya added.</p>
      <p>“And what answer did you boys come up with?”</p>
      <p>Napoleon shrugged. “Power. Money. Sex.”</p>
      <p>Illya settled his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes. “Or any combination thereof.”</p>
      <p>“Then I guess we’re agreed.” Nick adjusted the radio to pick up a stronger station. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”</p>
      <p>&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;-&lt;&gt;</p>
      <p>Under the light of the chandelier, Marjorie Claiborne’s head and arms lay sprawled across the tabletop, her body racked with sobs. “Not Cathy. She would never do that to us.”</p>
      <p>“Why not?” Illya asked coldly. “The apple falls not far from the tree.”</p>
      <p>“You’ve seen the evidence,” Napoleon continued. “Dirk Skala, alias Shiv, currently in UNCLE custody, has intimate knowledge of all your business ventures.”</p>
      <p>Illya leaned over her. “And of your daughter.”</p>
      <p>From the other side of the table, Waverly gave a slight cough, and Illya withdrew.</p>
      <p>Marjorie looked up at Waverly, her cheeks stained with tears. “I didn’t know anything about human trafficking. You heard what Randall said.”</p>
      <p>“I did, indeed. But hearing him and believing him are entirely different matters.”</p>
      <p>Napoleon sat down in the chair across from her. “Mrs. Claiborne, we already have teams sifting through each of your houses with fine-tooth combs. Soon they’ll be here too, pitting every olive and slicing into every wheel of Camembert until they find what they’re looking for. Now if you make things easier for us, we might make things easier for you.”</p>
      <p>Illya held up his hand. “Do you smell that?”</p>
      <p>Napoleon scrunched his face and sniffed. “All I smell is tobacco and truffles.”</p>
      <p>Waverly looked from his pipe to his agent. “What is it, Mr. Kuryakin?”</p>
      <p>“Accelerant.” Illya drew his replacement Special and headed toward the rear of the store. The office door swung open. Collier Adams stood on the threshold, a metal canister in one hand and a lighter in the other. With a click, it sparked into flame. “Drop your weapon, Illya, or I drop this.”</p>
      <p>“Coll,” Marjorie shrieked. She ran to the office and threw herself at Adams, who released the canister and wrapped his arm around her.</p>
      <p>“The same goes for you two,” he said, as Napoleon and Waverly slowly approached.</p>
      <p>The agents glanced at their Chief. At his slight nod, they laid their guns on the floor and kicked them aside.</p>
      <p>“Would you mind, Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly asked, holding out his weapon. “This weather has made my joints rather stiff.”</p>
      <p>With a raised brow, Illya took the gun from his Chief and repeated the procedure.</p>
      <p>“I knew you didn’t mean those things you said,” Marjorie cried, clinging to Adams’s neck. “I knew you’d come back for me.”</p>
      <p>Adams kissed her hair, never taking his eyes off the others. “I should hate you, Jorie,” he said fiercely. “God knows I tried to. But this thing’s too strong for me.”</p>
      <p>“What exactly is the meaning of this, Mr. Adams?” Waverly asked.</p>
      <p>“It’s very simple, sir. I love Marjorie, and I’m taking her away from here, someplace far away where not even UNCLE will find us.”</p>
      <p>“Think, Collier,” Napoleon urged. “You were a good agent. A good man. Are you going to give all that up for a woman you’ve known little more than a week?”</p>
      <p>Adams’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “I was trying to do the right thing, Napoleon. I went back to smooth things over. I wanted to erase the horrible desires I saw in her eyes the day before. No woman as lovely as Marjorie should ever look like that. Surely you of all people understand.”</p>
      <p>Napoleon grimaced in response.</p>
      <p>“Yes, I’m quite certain he does,” Waverly said dryly. “As I’ve told Mr. Solo on several occasions, that sort of rehabilitation is best left to our medical experts.”</p>
      <p>“She needed me,” Adams insisted, squeezing his arm more tightly around the woman who trembled against him. “Now I’m all she has left.”</p>
      <p>Illya rolled his eyes. “What are your demands?” he asked impatiently.</p>
      <p>Adams pointed his chin to the front of the store. Outside the windows, the sidewalk bustled with holiday revelers. “You’re going to let me and Marjorie walk out that door. In exchange, you’ll find all the information you need to shut down Claiborne’s trafficking ring.”</p>
      <p>“I thought you two searched that office thoroughly,” Waverly said to his agents.</p>
      <p>“We did. I assume Collier is aware of a hiding place that was very cleverly concealed.”</p>
      <p>“I am,” Adams said. “And if you try to stop us, everything goes up in smoke.”</p>
      <p>“What about those papers?” Illya asked, looking at the folded sheaf in Adams’s hip pocket.</p>
      <p>“Just a few financial records. Even on the lam, I’ll need to keep Marjorie in the style she’s used to.” Adams waved the lighter. “Now what’ll it be? Our two lives or hundreds of others?”</p>
      <p>“When you put it like that, the choice is obvious.” Waverly stepped aside.</p>
      <p>“He could be lying about the information in there,” Illya said.</p>
      <p>“I am afraid that is a chance we will have to take,” Waverly replied.</p>
      <p>With reluctance, Illya and Napoleon joined their Chief beside a display of pâté, clearing the path to the door.</p>
      <p>Adams dropped his arm from around Marjorie. “Hand me that canister, Jorie. It’s time to go.”</p>
      <p>Marjorie did as he asked, then hurried toward the front of the store. Adams followed at a slower pace, squirting a thin stream of accelerant onto the floor behind him, the lighter poised above it.</p>
      <p>“Ho-ho, boys, what did I miss?”</p>
      <p>At the sound of the jovial, booming voice, Adams spun around. Napoleon and Illya exchanged a coordinating glance, ready to spring into action, only to watch as Waverly pitched a can of foie gras toward the rogue agent. The projectile struck Adams’s hand, and his lighter flew across the store. Illya quickly tackled him.</p>
      <p>“Your joints have loosened up,” Napoleon said, jogging after Marjorie, who struggled frantically with the lock on the front door.</p>
      <p>Waverly chuckled. “So they have. Here, Mr. Kuryakin, hit him with this, if necessary.” He tossed Illya a salami the size of a billy club, then stepped around the two men grappling on the floor, his hand extended toward Nick. “Mr. Rozhdestvo, I presume. My agents told me you were headed back upstate.”</p>
      <p>Nick shook his hand vigorously. “I thought I should stick around a little while, in case I was needed again. I’d have returned sooner, but I had the hardest time finding a parking place for the plow.”</p>
      <p>Napoleon escorted Marjorie back to the others, holding her firmly by one arm. At the sight of Adams lying on the floor, bound with his own necktie, a fractured salami beside him, she screeched and wrenched free, then collapsed on top of her unconscious lover, weeping hysterically.</p>
      <p>Napoleon turned his scrunched face from the spectacle and swung his finger toward the front door. “Just, ah, how did you get in here, Nick? That door’s been locked since Mr. Waverly arrived with Mrs. Claiborne.”</p>
      <p>“That’s funny. It opened fine for me,” Nick replied with a grin.</p>
      <p>“Another mystery would be how you managed to enter without a sound,” Illya said, handing a sheaf of papers to Waverly. He joined his partner, who sniffed and backed away, mouthing the word, “Boom.”</p>
      <p>Nick looked at the little bell which hung from the top of the door. “Isn’t that the darnedest thing?” he said, scratching his white beard. Then he pointed to a tin of Russian caviar on the table beside him. “If I leave the money with you boys, could I take one of these back with me? I’d love to give it to Nastya as a Christmas surprise.”</p>
      <p>Waverly’s shaggy brows rose as he scanned the offshore account statements. “Have it on the house, as it were. I doubt Mrs. Claiborne will object.”</p>
      <p>“In that case, I’ll take a few.” Nick handed Napoleon and Illya a tin each and gave a wink. “Merry Christmas, boys.”</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. It Ain't Over Til It's Over by GirlintheGlen</h2></a>
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  <em>The round table was populated once more by the top agents of the Western World, and of course, their Chief.  Alexander Waverly could have done without this latest escapade landing squarely in the middle of his Christmas holiday.  His wife was highly annoyed by the entire episode, him being out late and vexed by yet another encounter with inexplicably difficult people.</em>
</h2><p>As for the Old Man, he felt satisfied that now, after several grueling days of dealing with the Claibornes and the errant love affair of his agent, the newly incarcerated Collier Adams with the peculiarly seductive Marjorie Claiborne... devil have it, he never would figure out the human condition.</p><p>Napoleon and Illya sat side by side at the big table, their fellow agents, Mark Slate and April Dancer, opposite them and also waiting for Waverly to finish his mulling over of things.  The pipe was poised for action but, as yet, unlit.  There was a certain sense of comfort in the sameness of it, the anticipation but not the certainty that the pipe would be lit, and the smoke would rise to the ceiling.</p><p>
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</p><p>Illya cut his eyes to the left, to his partner, and then across the table to the other two.  It was New Year's Eve, and in spite of the odds against it, he had a date.  It was the first year since coming to New York that he had actually made plans for the night, and here he sat...</p><p>Napoleon had two options for the evening.  Miss Darcy Winger, a lovely young thing from the typing pool, was waiting for him in the lobby of his apartment.  Not the most gentlemanly arrangement he had ever made, but she had insisted on being the one to pick him up.  He wondered how long she would wait for him, knowing that his job might take precedence over a date.</p><p>His other option, should she decide he wasn't worth the effort, was a standing offer to meet up with a certain platinum blonde who was always, mysteriously and conveniently, available on New Years Eve.  He dared not flatter himself that she always hoped he would knock on her door.</p><p>As for Mark and April, they had vowed to celebrate together, to mark a year of living dangerously and surviving it.  The newness of the partnership was still something that made them wonder at the serendipity of it all.</p><p>This was the mood in the room as Alexander perused the series of events that had led them here, to this round table discussion of the Time Square affair and the despicable business that was now, thankfully, completely dismantled.  Human trafficking was a 20th Century slave trade that included both the lowest and highest echelons of society.  He would certainly endeavor to eradicate it from his world in the coming months, although he was, in all honesty, uncertain of the success of his intentions.  For the moment, he needed to go home and kiss his wife.</p><p>"Thank you all for a job well done.  A few harrowing moments, to be sure, but all in all the situation was contained and the victims, at least those we encountered, are safe and on their way home.'  Now the ritual began in earnest.  Waverly took a match and, after tamping the tobacco once more and staring down the pipe until it acquiesced to its purpose, he lit it with a flourish and took his first draw.  Everyone watched as he expelled the smoke and sent it spiraling upwards. Impossibly, or perhaps not, the vapor seemed to form an exclamation point.</p><p>"I will not keep you, I imagine you all have plans for this evening.  Just in the <em>nick of time</em>, as it were." </p><p>With that the Old Man winked, as though he had known something all along that none of them were entirely sure of discovering.</p><p>
  <em>The End</em>
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    <strong>A Blessed and Prosperous New Year to You All!</strong>
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